


In The Forests Of The Night

by Sunfall_of_Ennien



Series: My Stories [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Death, Blood and Injury, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Fist Fights, Frottage, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Merlin tames a wild Arthur, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Mildest possible suggestion of gore related to fishing, Mildest possible suggestion of gore related to hunting, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Physical Abuse, Pining, Poor Life Choices, Serious Injuries, Sex Work, Spoiler: it doesn't go great, Touch-Starved, Uther is a shitty shitty father
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfall_of_Ennien/pseuds/Sunfall_of_Ennien
Summary: Princes don't have nightmares.  Arthur is sure of this.  So why won't Merlin believe him?
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: My Stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089842
Comments: 63
Kudos: 193





	1. The First Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merlioske](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlioske/gifts).



"You have your sleeping roll?"

"Yes, Gaius."

"Did you remember to pack an extra pair of breeches?"

"Yes, Gaius."

"Woolens? It's quite cold these last few evenings, you know."

"Yes, Gaius." 

"Thick socks? You've fallen behind on the darning. There are holes in those you're wearing right now, don't think I haven't noticed."

"Yes, Gaius." Merlin stifled an exasperated sigh.

"You didn't forget your smallclothes, did y--"

" _Gaius_." This time Merlin's sigh was audible. "I've packed. I'll only be gone a few days. You can stop fussing over me."

Gaius hurrumphed and turned away, but Merlin was sure he caught a fond look in the old man's eyes. "I promised your mother I'd look after you. Now you're going off into the wilds with the prince..."

"He's a knight, Gaius. Knights might be thick--Arthur more than most--but I'll be perfectly safe. Which is more than I can say for whatever unfortunate creatures cross his path." Merlin grunted. "Hunting trip... Why does Arthur need to _hunt_? He eats meat every day! In Ealdor, we'd be lucky to catch a couple of skinny rabbits for the stewpot. And half the village would share in it!" 

Gaius paused and turned back towards Merlin. "While it may be true that hunting is not a _necessity_ for the prince, it sharpens his senses and--"

"He trains with 'the finest knights in the realm'! How is a startled stag going to make him fitter?"

"As I was going to say, Merlin, you might consider that honing his martial prowess is not perhaps the real reason Arthur goes on these hunting trips."

Merlin looked up from repacking the food in his satchel. Nonplussed, he stared at Gaius.

Gaius' voice softened. "Merlin. Arthur is under tremendous pressure, and whether he admits it or not, the weight of his father's expectations takes a toll on him. Can you think of any other time he is not under Uther's watchful eye? When he's not the crown prince or the first knight of Camelot? When he's...just Arthur?"

Merlin swallowed, a little abashed. It was true that something of a bond had developed between himself and the prince. At times they were almost like...friends. But each time they approached familiarity, Arthur reasserted himself as Merlin's superior. He didn't seem to resent his position. If anything, he seemed to relish lording it over Merlin's head! But then, Gaius had known Arthur the whole of his life, had watched him develop into a prince and leader of men. Merlin felt some of his resentment fade. If he were being honest, he wouldn't trade positions with Arthur for all the wealth in the world. Merlin had Gaius, always supportive, always in his corner. Arthur had, well, everyone--and no one at the same time.

He shoved another apple and some cheese into his satchel. Of course the kitchens would provide food for their travels, but Arthur was prone to get snippy when he was hungry. Merlin thought about Gaius' admonition. Well, it wasn't true that Arthur had no one. Not anymore. _Whether he likes it or not,_ Merlin promised himself, _the prat's got_ me _now._

As the setting sun painted the citadel a gleaming coral, Merlin took his leave of Gaius and made his way to Arthur's chambers.

\-------------

Arthur stood at his open window watching the sunset. He frowned. His last meeting with his father had been frustrating. Uther seemed bent on extracting as much information from Arthur as possible before allowing him to depart, and Arthur had the distinct impression that his father was unsatisfied with his preparations. Arthur had delivered a complete update on troop readiness, summarized the most recent reports from newly returned border scouts, and detailed the training regimen Sir Leon would lead in his absence. He'd dispatched scribes to gather harvest forecasts from the outlying farms. He'd even brought up the knighting ceremony by nearly a week, so that the new recruits could begin their preparation before his return. And still, Uther brimmed with criticism. He'd even offered to cancel the hunting trip if Uther found the timing inconvenient, but the king waved him off. The occasions when Arthur managed to garner his father's approval were rare, and it seemed that today was not to be among them.

Arthur's gloomy thoughts were interrupted as the door to his chambers swung inward without warning. He gripped the windowsill, visibly startled. Merlin entered, apparently not slowed by the large number of bags slung across his shoulders, already talking at full speed.

"I know what you're going to say, sire, but the kitchens are understaffed and it took ages to get our food. I've been by the stables. Llamarei and Hengroen will be saddled and ready to ride at first light. Gaius prepared a salve for your strained shoulder--I have it around here somewhere." Merlin paused and swung wildly around, searching for the right bag. "The armoury will have your crossbow and spears delivered to the stable. And....um...what was the other thing I was supposed to remember?" Merlin muttered to himself and scratched his head. He looked up as Arthur turned to face him. 

"I don't know, let's see. Maybe you were supposed to remember to _knock, Mer_ lin! How many times do I need to remind you? You are entering the chambers of the prince of Camelot, not barging into the tavern!" 

"Right. Yes. Knocking." Merlin turned back to the door and knocked soundly, then swung back to face the prince. 

Arthur folded his arms and sighed. "You're really hopeless, aren't you, Merlin?"

Merlin's shoulders sagged. He smiled apologetically. Merlin really looked quite pathetic, weighed down by their bags and sleeping rolls. Arthur couldn't help himself. His tone softened. "Well, come on then. Put those down and help me out of my armor." Arthur held his arms out expectantly as Merlin divested himself of his burden. 

As Merlin unbuckled each piece, he chattered away at Arthur. Arthur would deny it to the end, but Merlin's breathless recounting of the day was the perfect antidote to his moodiness. Somehow his father's criticism receded before the onslaught of inanity that fell from Merlin's lips. "The head groom was going to _drown_ the runty one, Arthur! But Cook got word and started sending the stable boy scraps from the kitchens to feed it and now she's nearly as big as the others. Edward still calls her Tiny, but Cook calls her Beauty and she's still allowed all the scraps--well, after the pigs--and she's already a better tracker than her brothers." 

Arthur smiled inwardly. When Merlin paused for breath he took the opening. "Yes, well, you _would_ feel for the runt of the litter, wouldn't you, Merlin? Tell me, how long before you stop looking like a scarecrow and start to fill out? Should I have Cook send scraps up for you too?"

Merlin huffed. "I keep telling you, I'm stronger than I look." 

"You'd better be, Merlin. I won't have you lagging behind on this hunt." Arthur leaned forward and allowed Merlin to shuck the chainmail off his torso. It was probably his imagination, but Merlin seemed to be gaining on him in height, if not in muscle. When Merlin stood close to dress and undress him, Arthur found to his annoyance that he had to look up to meet Merlin's eyes.

Merlin helped Arthur out of his gambeson and laid each piece of mail out on the desk neatly, waiting for his attention on their return. On this trip Arthur would be protected only by his hunting leathers, and Merlin had already oiled and burnished the set. Merlin might be an abysmal manservant on many, many counts, but he did take faultless care with everything to do with Arthur's safety. 

"You should let me see to your shoulder," Merlin reminded him. 

"It's nothing."

"If a wild boar comes charging at us, I don't want to be gored because your throwing arm is stiff! Sit _down_ , Arthur." Merlin actually pushed him towards his chair. Arthur opened his mouth to object, but then Merlin was tugging his tunic over his head and the next moment, strong hands were kneading at his sore muscles. Arthur found himself sighing aloud as he relaxed into Merlin's touch. 

The first time Merlin had massaged him after training, Arthur sat stiffly throughout the procedure. It was disorienting. No one _touched_ the prince of Camelot, except for when Gaius probed for injuries or wrapped a sprained wrist. And certainly, no one's hands strayed so familiarly beneath his clothes or rested on his bare skin like Merlin's. Arthur kept trying to tell Merlin to stop, and instead caught himself leaning into his touch. Briefly he wondered if this was something all commoners did. Did Merlin grow up being touched as easily as he touched Arthur? Was that usual? Was it _proper_? But gradually, as Merlin's massages became part of their evening routines, Arthur stopped asking himself those questions. As it was, Arthur already felt an ache whenever Merlin's hands left him. He'd grown accustomed to the comfort of Merlin's hands, and deep inside, Arthur doubted he could give it up now if he tried.

Merlin kept up his prattle throughout the massage. Arthur listened more intently than he gave on. It was refreshing to listen to palace gossip instead of speeches and petitions. He found himself interested in the minutiae of his subjects' lives. Merlin gave him a window into their struggles and their joys. Once Merlin told Arthur of a widow in the lower town whose fine embroidery was simply not in demand enough to keep her from poverty. Within days, Arthur saw to it that the woman received a commission from the Lady Morgana to refresh a number of her older dresses. Another time, the potter whose broken leg was being treated by Gaius found himself in possession of enough grain and coin to allow the bone time to set properly before returning to work. 

Arthur didn't know if Merlin brought him their stories in hopes that he might help. Merlin never asked him for anything and Arthur never told him about his intervention, and so it never felt like a burden to listen. And despite his father's frequent criticisms, Arthur found a sense of self-worth in these simple acts. Maybe Merlin knew. Maybe that was his intention all along. There was much about his disaster of a manservant that Arthur still didn't fathom.

At length, Merlin's tongue slowed and Arthur found he could move the strained shoulder as easily as the uninjured one. Merlin left to bring up their evening meal, and Arthur sunk into his chair, relaxed and in a far better mood than Merlin had found him. He watched the small fire spark and smoulder in the fireplace. There was no doubt about it. Merlin might be incompetent, absolutely without a sense of his position, mouthy and overly familiar. But his life had changed the day of their meeting. Merlin had simply barged into Arthur's life and banished the loneliness he didn't even know was there. Nearly any of the palace staff was a better servant, but no one made him feel cared for like Merlin. And for all his threats, he'd sooner sack the lot of them than lose Merlin.

Not that Arthur ever intended to let him know it.

\-------------

Merlin returned with a tray piled high with cold meats, cheeses, and fruit. He stood stiffly as the prince began to eat, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and eyeing the meal until Arthur kicked out a chair and ordered him to sit and eat. At that, Merlin tucked in with gusto. When his appetite slackened, Merlin stood and shuffled through a drawer until he drew forth the prince's sleeping clothes. He turned down the sheets and unfolded a heavy blanket from the foot of the bed, while Arthur finished his meal. It was early spring and Gaius was right, the night was already getting chilly. Merlin closed and latched the window.

After dinner Arthur allowed Merlin to dress him for sleep. Merlin worked quickly to minimize Arthur's exposure to the cold air and made a mental note to put another log on the fire before retiring. Normally Arthur would dismiss him and Merlin would return to share a late supper with Gaius, but tonight he would stay in the antechamber. They would leave at first light and Arthur had made it clear that he expected Merlin to be on hand and ready to travel. 

It felt strange, Merlin thought, not to wish Arthur goodnight and depart to sleep in his own small cot. Arthur made no move to go to bed, choosing instead to watch the fire. Should Merlin stay with him? Did the prince want company or solitude? Already Merlin was sleepy. The day had been long and filled with preparations for their journey. 

"Will there be anything else?" he asked.

Arthur started at that. Merlin felt a twinge of annoyance. Had Arthur actually forgotten Merlin was there? Merlin felt awkward and waited for an answer. He tried and failed to stifle a yawn. 

Arthur turned his head and gave a half-smile. "No. Go to bed, Merlin. I won't have you falling asleep on Llamarei's back. Get some rest. I'll go to bed shortly."

Merlin inclined his head. "Goodnight, Arthur."

"Goodnight, Merlin."

And with that, Merlin walked a little hesitantly into the dark antechamber, feeling altogether out of place. 

\-------------

The servant's bed in the antechamber was more than twice the size of Merlin's cot, if not nearly as large as Arthur's four-poster. Merlin sat on the edge, hesitantly. The mattress was springy and pleasantly soft. Merlin had changed the sheets that afternoon and some of the mustiness of the unused room had been replaced with the scent of lavender and laundry soap. From his bed, Merlin could see the flickering firelight and knew Arthur was still awake. What kept him awake at such hours? Did he often stay up long after Merlin left him? His day might have been more physically comfortable than Merlin's, with the exception of his exertions during training, but Merlin had woken him early that morning and he knew Arthur's schedule had been a busy one. 

Really, he should be asleep already. But who would tell the prince of Camelot to go to bed?

\-------------

Arthur watched the fire, his mind far away. Without Merlin to keep them at bay, his thoughts returned to his father's dissatisfaction at their last interview. Maybe Arthur shouldn't go on the hunting trip. Maybe Uther wanted him to realize that on his own and stay in Camelot to attend to his duties without needing to be told. After all, he was the heir to the throne. A young man now, and not a boy. Perhaps that was the source of his father's underlying displeasure. Sometimes Arthur felt he would go mad, trying to read between his father's words to find something he had been missing all along, a way to become the prince--the son--his father wanted.

Arthur sighed. That was the crux of it, really. He _wasn't_ the son his father wanted. Perhaps he never could be. How could he make up for his disastrous entry into the world? The son his father wanted had a living mother, a queen and a wife that Uther loved. No matter what he became, Arthur could never make up for her sacrifice. As much as Arthur longed for his father's approval, deep down, he didn't feel capable of forgiving himself. How could he expect anything different from his father?

The fire was burning low when Arthur heaved himself up out of the chair and flopped into bed. Arthur slipped under the covers and let his head fall heavily on the pillow. From the next room he heard Merlin's gentle snore. Unfamiliar as the sound was, it soothed him. Sleep came with merciful speed, relieving the troubled prince of the burden of his thoughts. 

\-------------

Merlin awoke with a start, completely disoriented. Only the moonlight through the window showed him to be in Arthur's chambers and not in his own familiar room. He shook his head and tried to remember what had awakened him. 

A cry broke the silence. Merlin tumbled out of bed, tripping on the tangled covers and groping at the floor to regain his balance. The cry had come from Arthur's room. 

The cry had been Arthur's. He was under attack! Merlin opened his mouth to shout for the guards. 

Another cry rang out in the darkness, but this time it was muffled, indistinct. Slowly, Merlin's foggy brain began to comprehend. Arthur was crying out in his sleep. From the sound of it, he was having a nightmare.

Merlin reached the dimly lit opening, caught his shoulder on the doorframe, shrugged it off, and entered Arthur's chamber. Pale moonlight showed the way, but Merlin stopped to snatch a candle from the nearest wall sconce and lit in in the fire. Merlin approached Arthur's bed.

In the candlelight, Merlin could see Arthur's fingers twisted in the sheets. His forehead shone with sweat and his brows were drawn together in an anguished expression. Arthur was trying to speak, but his words were unintelligible. 

"Arthur?" Merlin called softly. There was no reply.

Merlin drew closer. "Arthur!" 

Arthur only twitched and tossed his head. Merlin pushed the candle firmly into the sconce beside the bed. He closed the distance. Arthur was tangled in the bedclothes. Merlin hesitated, then shook his head fondly. He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, and leaned across to grasp Arthur's shoulders.

"Arthur, wake up. You're having a bad dream." He gave the prince a shake.

The next moment was a blur. Arthur's eyes flew open. His hand disappeared beneath the pillow. An instant later Arthur was sitting up in bed, the knife in his hand pressed firmly to Merlin's neck. 

Merlin froze in terror. He felt a tickle at his throat. The sharp blade had slipped beneath his skin without pain, he realized, but a trickle of blood dripped from the shallow cut. His heart hammered. "Ar--Arthur?" he whispered.

It could only have taken a moment, but to Merlin it was an age before Arthur's dark blue eyes focused on his, the pupils contracting as Arthur came to consciousness. The knife dropped from his throat.

"Gods, Merlin, what the _hell_ are you playing at? I could have killed you!" Arthur snarled, but beneath the anger he sounded terrified. 

Merlin's mouth worked as if to speak, but no sound came out. His eyes were enormous in the candlelight, and brimmed with tears.

"Merlin. Merlin, I'm sorry..." Arthur stammered. "Are you alright?"

Merlin sucked in a deep breath and nodded as a tear slipped free, and then another. He couldn't move, still paralyzed by shock and fear.

Arthur pushed himself away from Merlin. He held up his empty hands. "I'm sorry," he said again in a softer voice. "I didn't know it was you. Gods, Merlin, what were you doing?" 

Merlin swallowed and found himself able to speak. "You, you were having a bad dream. I tried to wake you up but you wouldn't wake up and I just thought, I thought, I..." His voice trailed off again. "I was trying to help."

Arthur gave a weak laugh and leaned back against the headboard. "You thought I was having a nightmare...so you attacked me?"

Indignant, Merlin found himself shouting, "No, you royal _ass_ , you couldn't wake up so I shook you!" Merlin leaped to his feet and turned away from Arthur, angrily wiping away tears and crossing his arms. His heart still pounded in his ears. The cut on his neck began to sting.

"I said I was sorry! What do you want me to say? Gods, Merlin, I've been trained to kill since _birth_ and you just...you have no idea, you absolute _idiot_ , what you could have...what I could have..." His anger sputtered out as quickly as it had flared. "And anyway," he grumbled, "Princes don't have _nightmares_. I'm not a child, Merlin!"

Merlin whirled back around to face him. "Well you could have fooled me! I was just trying to help--"

"I don't _need_ your help, Merlin. And I don't have nightmares. And even if I--" Arthur's voice cut off abruptly as his eyes came to rest on the skin of Merlin's long, pale neck. "Oh gods, Merlin," he whispered. "Did I do that to you?"

"Yes, you utter prat! I touched you and you attacked me like some kind of maniac! Do you do this every time you have a nightmare, is this just because I put my dirty peasant hands on your royal nightshirt?"

This time Arthur was speechless. He shook his head slowly.

"How many other servants have you scared off? Gods, did you try to kill any of _them_ when they tried to wake you up?" Merlin was struggling to sustain his sense of righteous indignation in the face of Arthur's silence. His thoughts began to catch up to his roiling emotions. "Don't they try to wake you up?"

Arthur just stared at him.

"You mean, nobody ever...?" Merlin trailed off. "Arthur, I...I was just trying to comfort you."

Arthur swallowed but didn't speak.

Merlin stood, still breathing heavily, the anger in his chest extinguished by the expression on Arthur's face. At length he asked, "Will there be anything else...sire?"

Arthur shook his head.

"Goodnight, sire." Merlin turned away without waiting for a reply.

Long after his figure disappeared in the dark of the antechamber, Arthur whispered, "Goodnight, Merlin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place somewhere towards the end of S1 in canon, minus the events of "The Moment of Truth". Will isn't a character in the story, but he's alive and well in Ealdor, and you pry that reality from my cold dead hands.


	2. The Second Night

Waking early in Camelot was harder for Merlin than in Ealdor. Back in his village the blacksmith's scruffy cockerel crowed (if his cat-like wailing deserved the term) before the stars even began to fade from the sky. After a time, Merlin became accustomed to waking early and then lying in, cursing the damn thing and debating whether rooster was better served herb-crusted, smoked, or stuffed and roasted. Eventually Hunith would summon him to the day's chores with a cheerful "Rise and shine!" or "Let's have you, lazy daisy!" and that was enough for him to open his eyes, grumble, and roll out of the bedclothes. 

In Camelot, Merlin had to attune to the rumble of market carts on the cobblestone streets outside the citadel, the murmur of a great city coming to life, the bells that signalled the opening of the great gates. It was subtler and for the first few weeks, as often as not, Gaius chased him out of their chambers still pulling on his socks and boots. Now the earliest light through his window was usually enough to bring him to consciousness, scrambling for clothes in the grey light to bring breakfast from the kitchen and wake Arthur in his turn. 

Not so this morning. The slowly fading night sky found Merlin already fully dressed beneath the covers, hands folded across his chest, eyes cast upwards without a focus. After the night's...incident, Merlin found himself unable to drift off again. His thoughts and emotions jangled in his head and kept sleep at bay. The sharp shock of fear still tingled in his limbs. Anger arose and subsided at turns, hot in his chest. But beneath them was something harder to dismiss. Disastrous as the night had been, it had torn away the mask Arthur wore so easily by day, and Merlin couldn't forget what he'd seen. 

Arthur. The prat prince. The spoiled heir. The royal arse. The walls Arthur continually threw up between himself and Merlin: what if those weren't to keep his lowly manservant in his place? What if they had been built brick by brick to insulate a lonely boy against...what? Rejection? Uther was ruthless with his son. As much as Merlin longed to know what it was to have a father, Uther's treatment of Arthur made him think twice. Maybe Arthur was guarding himself against wanting what he couldn't have. Nobles, knights, servants, commoners--Merlin couldn't think of a time he'd seen anyone so much as clap a hand to Arthur's shoulder. So why would Arthur expect to be held? To have his night terrors chased away by a caring touch? 

A grumbling voice in Merlin's head argued that holding a _knife_ to a person's throat was hardly an invitation to closeness, but grudgingly he admitted that Arthur was far more likely to be attacked in his sleep than embraced. And so Merlin stared into the darkness of the ceiling and waited for the moon to set and the sky to turn from blue-black to grey. 

When it did, Merlin sighed wearily and pushed himself upright. So much for enjoying the luxurious antechamber bed. He buckled his boots and stood, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. As he approached the doorway he passed a large mirror which reflected the early streaks of dawn from the window opposite. In the glass, Merlin saw his tall, gawky frame, his uncombed hair, and...oh. Dark against his pale throat, a thin red line and trickle of dried blood caught his eye. He licked his thumb and ran it roughly across the marks, with partial success. He reached into his pocket and drew forth a faded neckerchief and tied it with quick, practiced motions. Satisfied that the evidence of the previous night was hidden, Merlin strode into Arthur's chambers.

"Sire," Merlin called in a low voice. Nothing. Arthur was once again tangled in the bedclothes, sprawled on his stomach, sound asleep for all that Merlin could tell. " _Sire_ ," he repeated, irritation creeping into his tone. _Gods, I'm going to be grouchy_ , Merlin thought, _starting this trip on only a few hours of sleep_. While Arthur, the prat, seemed to have enjoyed a full night's rest. "Arthur, wake up!" Merlin sighed. He gathered his limited reserves of patience and channeled Hunith of Ealdor. "Rise and shine! Shake a leg." 

Arthur groaned then, but didn't turn over. Rationally, Merlin knew he could approach Arthur safely now, just as he had countless times before. But his memory of the night was still too vivid. He felt as if his boots were adhered to the stone floor. He took a deep breath and bellowed, " _Alright then, let's have you, lazy daisy!_ " 

The muffled sound Arthur made was untranslatable. Slowly he rolled onto his back and then raised up on his elbows. "Lazy," Arthur drawled, "Daisy?" 

Merlin smiled in spite of himself. "Good morning, sunshine!" Gods, he hated it when his mother used that one. But it was all worth it for the high arch of Arthur's eyebrows beneath his wildly mussed yellow hair. 

"Merlin."

"Sire?"

"Have you lost whatever remained of your already limited sense?"

Merlin shrugged and folded his arms behind his back. "Apparently you answer to 'lazy daisy" and "sunshine" more readily than you do "sire", "highness", "my lord," "your exalted majesty," or--"

"Merlin?"

"Shut up?"

"Oh definitely. Also, duck."

Merlin opened his mouth to object when Arthur pitched an embroidered pillow across the distance, catching him right in the solar plexus. He wheezed and Arthur fell back into the covers with a self-satisfied laugh. Merlin grunted and tossed the pillow back onto the bed. Through gritted teeth he managed, "Clothes. Now." Arthur raised an eyebrow and frowned. Merlin rolled his eyes and tried again. "Clothes. Now. _Siiiiire_."

Arthur smirked, sat up, and threw back the covers.

\-------------

 _That could have gone worse_ , Arthur thought wearily from Hengroen's broad back. 

He was exhausted. It felt like he'd fallen asleep just minutes before Merlin woke him, having spent most of the night tossing and turning and thinking. What a disaster. Merlin was just a servant. There was no reason for Arthur to feel embarrassed, but still his guts churned with shame. If Merlin was telling the truth, then his manservant had acted out of genuine concern. Over the hours that sleep evaded him, Arthur tried to imagine another explanation for Merlin's behavior, but no matter how he tried, Arthur couldn't rationalize away the look in Merlin's eyes. Fear, yes. But also hurt, and betrayal. Though he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, Merlin's face would not fade. 

Which brought up another disturbing thought. If Merlin was telling the truth, had Arthur really been in the throes of...a nightmare? He couldn't remember anything before waking with his knife to Merlin's throat. (His stomach turned again at the thought.) Arthur had been trained to master fear and pain since before he could walk. He hadn't shed a tear, Arthur remembered with pride, when Gaius set his broken arm. After all, as his father admonished, he shouldn't have climbed the old oak tree if he wasn't strong enough to climb down. So what if the commoner boys dared him? He'd been nearly ten. And since his adolescence, Arthur had faced danger and death countless times, both alone and in command of fighting men. 

So what did a trained warrior have nightmares about? Arthur rode on in silence, unsettled and lost in thought.

\-------------

Merlin found that the ride did wonders for his low mood and exhaustion. The morning air was chilly and as they rode out of the city, clean and yet pungent with the promise of green things growing. Even Llamrei, normally perfectly docile, kicked up her heels as she rode through the oceans of wildflowers. If it were up to Merlin, he would have unbuckled her saddle and let her roll and snort in a fat clover patch, but this was a hunting trip. So Merlin reined in the spirited mare and cursed the pastimes of the noble classes.

"So what exactly are we hoping to kill today? Doesn't seem to be much of anything about." Merlin's voice rang out across the field. A nearby tree trembled as a dozen woodpigeon took to the sky. Arthur's back straightened in annoyance. 

"Well for your sake, let's hope it's something _deaf_. I really think I should have brought your namesake along instead. A merlin falcon is a noble partner in the hunt. You, on the other hand, scare off the game in the field and alert bandits in the woods."

Merlin urged Llamrei to trot alongside Hengroen as he fished around in his satchel. Wordlessly, he handed Arthur an apple. Arthur scowled at him and opened his mouth as if to protest, but he took the apple. After a few minutes he leaned forward to feed Hengroen the core. A piece of cheese appeared in Merlin's hand. This time Arthur snatched it from him. Merlin dropped back a little and waited.

"This is the Camelot I miss when I'm trapped in council meetings and formal dinners. Look." Merlin took the invitation to ride up beside Arthur. The prince gestured towards the east, where the fields turned to marsh. Above them, the early morning sky was streaked with pink and orange. "Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?" Merlin smiled to himself. Arthur's mood was already lifting. He ate a piece of cheese off the small knife blade and murmured his agreement. 

"Do you think you can keep that mouth of your shut long enough to flush out a pheasant or two?" Merlin sighed. It was peculiar, really, that Arthur had insisted on his company. A pack of hounds and a team of beaters would be more fitting for a royal hunt, and even a tiny merlin from the royal eyrie would be more useful. Merlin hated flushing game, driving frightened animals towards their doom. The best he could say was that this hunt was as sporting as a hunt could ever be, just one hunter (and his reluctant manservant) alone in the wilds. Merlin rode out towards the marsh in a wide approach, and dismounted.

\-------------

Arthur's first shot went wide, but his second was clean, dropping the bird senseless from the sky. Merlin trudged through the marshy grass, eyes trained on the spot where the pheasant had disappeared. Sure enough, the creature was dead where it lay. 

Arthur called Merlin a girl for his tender heart, but he didn't understand that Merlin had grown up where ruthlessness was sometimes an act of mercy. "Never let a living creature suffer," his mother taught him, the first time he tried to help her butcher their small flock of chickens. His hesitation nearly caused his first bird a slow and painful death, but Hunith stepped forward and snapped its neck in one powerful, simple motion. After that, Merlin learned that he could be decisive when needed--and better, that his magic could end a creature's suffering instantaneously. He was tender-hearted, but he wasn't naive.

When Arthur rode up, Merlin had already slid his knife into the skin above the breastbone and was in the process of separating skin from flesh. Arthur opened his mouth and closed it again. He put away his hunting knife and simply watched as Merlin dressed the bird quickly and efficiently. After a time, Merlin felt himself being watched and looked up. "Something wrong?" he asked.

Arthur frowned. "How do you know how to do that?"

Merlin snorted. "What did you bring me along for? Were you planning on freezing those princely fingers to dress your own game?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Arthur did not answer Merlin's first question. He wasn't exactly sure that he knew why he'd brought Merlin, but it certainly wasn't for his utility. "I thought you hated hunting."

"I don't take any pleasure in it, unlike some people I could mention. Come on, Arthur, have you never even thought about my life before Camelot? Which of us do you think has gotten his hands dirty more often, cleaning a bird or a rabbit or a fish? In Ealdor, meat doesn't just arrive on silver platters." Merlin returned to his task, removing the wings and head of the pheasant. 

"You're full of surprises, Merlin."

Merlin chuckled to himself. "Just part of my charm. After all, I can't have you getting bored."

Arthur smiled in spite of himself. "No, I suppose not."

\-------------

The hours passed in languorous ease as they rode through the fields, past the marsh, and into the woods. Here was nothing of Camelot's bustle. Here time was marked by shifting light and not council meetings, if it was marked at all. By unspoken agreement, the previous night's events went unmentioned, and gradually an easy companionship developed between the prince and his servant. Lazy banter alternated with periods of comfortable silence as the day stretched on. Eventually they attuned to the subtler sounds of the outdoors, and the air was full of life even in the relative still of midday, busy with insect hum and birdsong.

Merlin wasn't sure what he expected from a hunting trip with Arthur, but it wasn't this. In the city, the prince was all action and efficiency. Merlin had come to notice that Arthur was ill at ease when nothing was expected of him. Sometimes he would rest his head on folded arms and watch Merlin work, but even then his stillness had a restless quality. Merlin usually ribbed him about lazy royals lounging about while honest folk worked, but he felt a little twinge of regret now. Arthur wasn't really ever relaxed except when he was in action. Only here, in the wilds, did the prince seem to be able to be at peace.

Arthur wasn't a particularly aggressive hunter either, not like on the royal hunts where a dozen knights and beaters joined him in the kill. After bagging the pheasant for their evening meal, Arthur seemed content to observe the wildlife around him with a watchful eye, making no special effort to seek out his next prey. 

Not until a rustling in a thicket caught his attention.

The dappled brown head of a doe emerged from the thicket. She seemed not to have noticed the interlopers to her sanctuary. Merlin's heart leapt into his throat as Arthur slowly raised his crossbow. They were near enough that Merlin could see her long eyelashes as she blinked and turned to face them. She froze, but did not flee. Merlin wanted to shout a warning but his voice caught and he hesitated. 

Arthur sighted his target with deadly precision. The doe stared steadily back. For a moment it seemed that the stillness was unbreakable, that this moment would stretch into eternity. The hunter and the hunted, frozen in a changless tableau. Only the doe's heaving sides exposed her terror. Arthur's face was impassive, as if carved from stone. 

Merlin sensed rather than saw Arthur move. He flinched and closed his eyes. But the whistle of the bolt did not come, and as Merlin opened his eyes, he watched Arthur lower the crossbow. The doe blinked back at them. A moment later there was a tiny rustling. A fawn, spotted with white, knock-kneed and gangly stumbled into the clearing and stood, watching with fearless curiosity. Arthur's arm dropped to his side and he inclined his head slightly towards her. He reined Hengroen into a turn and led him away from the clearing without looking to see if Merlin followed. 

For a moment Merlin watched them, his heart still pounding. Warm brown eyes met blue. And then they were gone, the doe like a shadow sliding sideways through the trees, her fawn just a frisk of movement that vanished. Llamrei nickered softly. Merlin gave way and let her lead them back to Arthur, who rode unhurried towards the gathering evening shade.

\-------------

Arthur followed the sound of running water to a shallow creek, where only a few weeks before there would have been a dry bed of earth. Arthur and Merlin dismounted. Spring rains had brought the clearest water and Hengroen and Llamrei drank noisily as Merlin began to set up camp. To his surprise, Arthur moved alongside him, unbuckling the saddlebags and picking up branches for firewood. 

Puzzled, Merlin approached him and reached for the small bundle Arthur had already gathered. Arthur straightened and looked at him, unmoving. "I'll get that," he prompted. Arthur seemed strangely reluctant to relinquish his task, but at last he dumped the armful on Merlin.

"Get the fire started while I gather the rest. I want dinner ready within the hour."

Merlin gave an ironic bow. "I'll alert the kitchens, sire." 

"And Merlin, for your sake, I do hope you remembered the honeycakes. I'd hate to send you all the way back to the castle for them, but I will."

Merlin jerked his head towards their bags. "Not a complete idiot, Arthur. I know how you get without your sweets."

Arthur looked as if he wanted to say something else, but instead he gave a tiny laugh and turned away to finish gathering wood.

\-------------

The pheasant had been young and fat and the dried herbs Merlin rubbed into its skin flavored it tolerably well. They ate messily and quickly, and soon sat under the light of a full moon, comfortable and well-fed. 

The fire popped and hissed. The horses whinnyed softly to each other in the darkness. Both young men were exhausted, less from the day's gentle exertions and more from the sleepless night before. Still, neither made a move to turn in immediately after dinner. Arthur spoke first.

"Talk."

"What?"

"You heard me. Talk. Normally I can't get you to shut up. Now I feel myself in the unusual mood of wanting to hear you prattle. And I'm your prince. So talk."

Merlin laughed. "So you tell your dogs to bay and your horses to gallop and your manservant to talk. Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Merlin gave a harrumph. "What do you want me to say? Does your highness want a bedtime story?"

Arthur poked the fire with a stick, sending up a shower of sparks. "Tell me...tell me why you came to Camelot," he finished with an effort at nonchalance. 

Merlin's eyebrow quirked. He thought about it. For a moment he imagined opening his mouth and telling the truth. The thought gave him a pang in his chest. He might just as well climb into the fire right now, as tell Arthur how magic drove him from danger at home to even greater danger at Arthur's side. He settled on a half-truth. It was becoming a familiar practice. "I just...didn't fit in. It's a small village, Ealdor. If the roof doesn't leak and your belly is full, you ought to be happy. I think I wanted something more. Someplace I belonged."

Arthur didn't look up from the fire. "And have you found it?" He felt unexpected anxiety, waiting for Merlin's answer.

Merlin's eyes slid sideways to take in the view of his prince. _His_ prince, he realized, as the thought struck him. When had he come to feel like Arthur belonged to him, as much as he did to Arthur? 

"Not sure. Too soon to tell." Merlin hesitated. "I hope so," he finished quietly.

Arthur looked over to his manservant with an expression that Merlin couldn't place. "I'm going to bed," he said abruptly. "Don't stay up too late. I expect breakfast bright and early in the morning, and I don't want to kick you out of your sleeping roll to get it." But he placed a hand on Merlin's shoulder for support as he got to his feet and roughly tousled his hair before turning away.

Merlin smiled in the firelight and combed his hair back with his fingers. A warm feeling in his chest bloomed. Maybe Camelot wasn't his home any more than Ealdor. But maybe his home wasn't a place, after all. 

\-------------

_Merlin holds the nightshirt impatiently, but Arthur is unhurried as he strips behind the screen. Arthur is talking. From his tone it sounds important, but Merlin can’t make out the words somehow. If Arthur would just come out and get dressed, Merlin could stop holding his arms up. They’re strangely tired, heavy--and suddenly he’s holding up a mail shirt instead, the metal rings cold against his fingers. Arthur sounds agitated but Merlin is so, so tired. If he can just get Arthur dressed, he can go back to sleep._

_“No!” Arthur exclaims from behind the screen, his voice hoarse and strained. “Wait! Don’t...don’t leave me!” Merlin tries to reassure him he’s not going anywhere, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. Arthur is pleading now, pleading with someone Merlin can’t see. He needs me, Merlin thinks. The mail shirt falls to the floor, but his hands are still terribly cold. Merlin needs to see Arthur’s face. He throws his arms out to shove the screen aside. He can still hear Arthur’s voice but when the screen collapses, no one is there. Panicked Merlin turns around and around in the empty bedchamber._

_I’m here, Merlin screams silently. Arthur! Arthur!_

“Arthur!” Merlin sat up, gasping like a fish out of water, awakened by the sound of his own voice. For a moment his eyes took in only darkness. Gradually the black gave way to shades of grey, and Arthur’s form took shape just a few feet away, right where he’d been when Merlin had gone to bed. Merlin’s chest heaved with the fading panic of his dream. Arthur was here. Arthur was safe. Arthur was sleeping. 

Arthur was sleeping, but not peacefully. His head tossed and his lips moved, forming words too indistinct to make out. Merlin recognized the agitated voice from his dream and sighed. How long had Arthur been like this? And what in the world was he supposed to do about it? Unconsciously, he rubbed his throat where the neckerchief covered his injury. He lay back down and pulled the blankets closer around his body. There was nothing he could do for Arthur, and Arthur didn’t want his help. He’d made that fact abundantly clear the previous night. Guiltily, Merlin closed his eyes and willed his body to sink back into sleep. 

But sleep wouldn’t come. In the still of night, Arthur’s voice was clearer than in Merlin’s dream. There was fear in his tone, and desperation. He seemed to be calling to someone over and over. Someone...leaving? Getting lost? Merlin couldn’t make sense of it. And then one word emerged that knocked the breath out of him. Hardly more than a whisper, but distinct, Arthur called out in the night: 

“ _Mother_ …”

Mother? Merlin shook his head. _Mother?_ That put Arthur's nightmares in a different light, certainly. But what could he be dreaming? Merlin felt abashed, for not knowing more about Arthur's childhood. He knew two things for certain about the queen: she died when Arthur was a child, and she was not spoken about, not by the king, not by Gaius, and certainly not by Arthur. 

His thoughts drifted to his own mother. Growing up in Ealdor without a father had been difficult. Before Will was there to stand up for him, Merlin had been knocked down easily a dozen times for defending his mother against the ugliest taunts the village children could throw at him. Even if he was nothing but a "fatherless bastard whelp," he had always had a mother who loved him. Had always known the gentleness of her touch, wiping dirt and tears away from a scraped cheek, ruffling his hair affectionately, holding him tightly after a nightmare. 

And Merlin had nightmares. When the children whispered stories about the fate of magic users, Merlin had covered his ears and run home to his mother, shaking like a leaf. Was it true? Did they really burn people like him? Unnatural monsters, consigned to the flames to keep good children and their families safe? His mother had gathered him in her arms and rocked him back and forth through the many nights of terror that followed, the dreams of fire and choking black smoke that woke him screaming. Even now, Merlin shivered at the memory. Gradually his nightmares became less frequent, and as he grew towards adolescence, Merlin took pride in waking himself and splashing his face with water to banish them without disturbing his mother. Still, he'd always known he could go to her, even as a young man, and be accepted with open arms.

Arthur, though...what did Arthur remember of his mother? What arms had scooped him up as a child, or held him through the fading fear of a bad dream? Or maybe it was as Arthur had said: perhaps princes didn't have nightmares. No, Merlin decided. Those words sounded like an echo of Uther Pendragon. Whatever Arthur's childhood had been, Merlin couldn't envy him. What childhood could there have been for a boy raised to be a warrior and a king? "Trained to kill since birth", how could such a boy reach out for comfort and not be reprimanded for weakness? 

Arthur's voice shook him from his reverie, a low moan of despair that cut Merlin to the quick. Before he could reconsider, Merlin wrestled free of his blankets and stood up. The horses were shuffling and tossing their heads with soft whinneys. He went first to Llamrei and then to Hengroen and stroked their necks, murmuring comforting words until they stood still and easy. Then, slowly and cautiously, Merlin made his way to Arthur's bedroll. 

Arthur's sword lay within arms reach. Gently, Merlin slid it away from the sleeping form. Arthur turned his head and mumbled, brows drawn together in distress, but he did not wake. Merlin took a deep breath and knelt at Arthur's head. Then he extended one hand towards the prince and rested it lightly on his sweat-dampened hair. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Arthur sighed almost imperceptibly. Emboldened, Merlin drew two fingers across Arthur's forehead, from the bridge of his nose to his temple, as his mother always did to sooth him as a child. Arthur exhaled a shaky breath and his brow relaxed. Merlin repeated the motion on the other side of Arthur's face and was rewarded by the sight of his clenched fingers releasing their hold on the blankets. Gradually, Arthur's cries hushed and his breathing deepened. At one point he even turned his head to follow Merlin's hand, as if unwilling to break the connection.

And so Merlin found himself sitting beside the sleeping prince, stroking his head gently, as moonlight slanted through the leafy canopy above. When Arthur's deep breathing turned to a soft snore, Merlin rose carefully and made his way back to his sleeping roll. He smiled at the comforting sound. He closed his eyes. He did not remember falling asleep. 


	3. The Third Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin still isn't sure why Arthur dragged him along on this trip, but he's determined not to waste the opportunity. He wants to understand what haunts Arthur's dreams. But how can Merlin, even with his magic, hope to protect his prince from his own ghosts?

Merlin awoke to the throaty cooing of wood pigeons and wrens, and somewhere nearby, one exceptionally enthusiastic robin. His ears also registered Arthur’s rather less melodious snore. He sat up, surprised, and looked at his companion. Arthur lay on his back exactly as Merlin had left him the night before. His brow was relaxed, his lips curved into a soft smile. So perfectly still, he looked like a painting in the early morning light, a portrait of contentment and rest. If Arthur could manage a bit of a lie-in after last night’s disturbance, Merlin wasn’t going to disturb him.

Merlin carefully peeled back his covers and crept out of his sleeping roll. He ached a bit all over. _Spoiled_ , he thought. _I’ve gone soft since Camelot_. The morning was almost chilly enough to send him back under the blankets, but he forced himself to stretch and move and gradually warm up. He gingerly lifted one of his packs and tiptoed away from the campsite, down towards the river. Merlin took his time selecting a sapling, finally settling on a slender birch. His fingers were cold and clumsy at first as he drew forth a hunting knife with a thick serrated blade, and he nearly cut himself. Merlin stamped his feet and rubbed his long fingers together until he felt sure he could wield the knife without losing a digit in the process. 

The work of making a new fishing spear would have been tedious, back in Ealdor. But here in the woods away from the city, it felt gloriously indulgent, slow-paced by necessity and almost meditative. He could only just make out Arthur’s snore above the soft babble of water. If Arthur stayed asleep a bit longer, there was every chance Merlin could catch something for their midday meal and still have time to throw together a simple camp breakfast before he awoke. Merlin gave himself over to his task as the morning sun began to warm his face and extremities. Nearly imperceptibly, more chirping and piping joined the dawn chorus. A smile spread over his face. He didn’t know when he’d last felt so at peace.

Within half an hour, Merlin held a simple, elegant, four-pronged fishing spear in his hand. He grinned at the memory of Will teaching him. Will mocked his first clumsy attempts. It wasn’t fair, Merlin thought at the time. Will had a father to teach him! But now Will’s father was gone as well. And although his words were critical, Will’s hands were gentle, repositioning Merlin’s fingers to wedge the small wooden splints and split the sapling neatly down its center. There was tenderness in Will’s teaching that made Merlin wonder what kind of a man his father had been. 

Lost in reverie, Merlin failed to notice that the snoring had stopped. That should have been his first warning. 

Merlin stood, spear in hand, and tested the water-smoothed stones with his feet until he found two that were stable and near where the creekbed dropped away. The water was much deeper here but perfectly clear. He watched schools of minnows flit by and slowed his breathing as he focused on the larger greylings that pursued them lazily. One swam near and Merlin raised the spear, focusing on a point just below its belly. It was at that moment that three things happened.

The spear was plucked from his hand.

The greylings scattered.

A familiar face took shape in the surface of the smooth water.

“Arthur, no! Ar--”

Merlin felt a sudden pressure behind his knees and they buckled. He started to lose his balance and might just have regained it, had not a broad hand landed on the middle of his back. For a moment his arms pinwheeled comically, and then Merlin was plunged into the brisk, cold waters. He came up drenched to the bone, spluttering and cursing. 

Arthur stood over him, laughing fit to burst. He leaned on the spear for support and wheezed as Merlin scrambled for purchase on the moss-covered floor of the creek bed. Merlin found his footing, opened his mouth to launch into a positively treasonous tirade, and found himself slipping back under. He surfaced again to Arthur’s raucous laughter, and again slipped below. The cold was making it hard to catch his breath and he was getting clumsier with each attempt. The third time he came up, his eyes were wide with panic, and then the waters closed over his head. 

The grin fled from Arthur’s face. He cast the fishing spear behind him and squatted to locate Merlin, but he’d kicked up so much silt that the water was nearly opaque. “ _Merlin!”_ Arthur bellowed. No answer returned. No head of black hair surfaced nearby. Arthur rose from his crouch, scanning the water with increasing desperation. At last he saw it: a red neckerchief floating downstream on the far side of the creek. Arthur’s eyes darted from stone to stone, picking a path towards the scrap of cloth. His feet found their way across wobbling stone to the middle of the creek, when his left ankle caught on something.

Or rather, something caught his left ankle. Long, slender fingers wrapped around his boot with surprisingly strength--and _yanked_. With an undignified yelp, Arthur slid into the cold waters. The shock made it hard to find his footing, but when he did, Arthur was greeted by a broad, blinding, and altogether obnoxious grin. Merlin threw his head back and laughed until he gasped for air.

The justice of his situation did not immediately register with Arthur, not the way the surprise, cold, and rage did. He launched himself at Merlin, whose eyes widened as he pushed himself backwards. The next few minutes were chaos. Arthur was stronger but Merlin was faster. Between Arthur’s powerful arms and Merlin’s fishlike wriggling, they each dunked the other a number of times, but far more frequently they simply lost their balance and dunked themselves.

At last, by silent agreement, they clambered out of the depths of the creeks and scrambled back to shore, where they stood shivering uncontrollably. 

“Oh, well done, _Siiiire_. I was hoping to die of exposure this morning.”

“Sh-sh-shut up, _Mer_ lin!” Arthur hissed, but then he glanced at his manservant who looked like nothing so much as a half-drowned cat, and burst into laughter again. 

It was infectious. Against his will, Merlin found himself wheezing alongside the prince. 

“We have to get out of these or we _will_ freeze,” Arthur managed at last. Merlin nodded and they began to peel away layer after layer of soaked clothing. Despite the morning chill, they felt warmer almost immediately. The sun’s rays dried their goose-pimpled skin and heated the rocks on which they stood. Arthur appeared completely at ease. Merlin felt shyer, but there really wasn’t anything for it, so he looked for a patch of smooth pebbles along the bank. Finding a suitable spot, Merlin stretched out along the sun-warmed stones and tried not to watch Arthur out of the corner of his eye. 

For his part, Arthur was grappling with several uncomfortable realizations in the space of a few minutes. He stood on the bank and stared across the creek towards the horizon. This morning he’d woken from the most delicious sleep he could remember, only to see that Merlin’s bedroll was empty. He’d tracked his manservant to the creek. As he approached, the trees thinned, parting to reveal a tall, lanky figure silhouetted against a glorious pink and coral sunrise. 

The sight had stirred something within him. Poised in concentration, spear raised in one arm, Merlin was quite simply...beautiful. Out here, in the wilds, he brought to mind some fey woodland creature. He belonged to the sky and the water and the trees in a way Arthur didn’t. Arthur felt a pang in his heart, a longing for something he couldn’t name. But it made him feel vulnerable, restless, and unsatisfied. 

So like a child throwing a tantrum, he’d shattered the moment, hoping to dislodge these strange new feelings. And it had worked, for a time. Only now he stood mere feet away from Merlin, whose naked body he’d never seen before, and his heart felt even more crowded and confused. Worse, his body was recovering from the cold and he felt the beginning of arousal warm in his belly. He sneaked a look at Merlin. The boy’s head had dropped to one side and his eyes were closed, whether asleep or just relaxed, Arthur couldn’t tell. 

_Merlin? Really?_ His worst manservant, his best friend...what could he possibly want with _Merlin_ , of all people? 

Well. He could think of _some_ things...but no, that was ridiculous. Complicated. Messy. Doomed to awkward failure. And that was _if_ Merlin even reciprocated his interest. Arthur groaned inwardly. This is what came of a lifetime of isolation, he thought. I’m having _feelings_ and _urges_ about my knock-kneed, bumble-headed, impudent, scarcely competent, absolute fool of a _manservant_. 

_And yet I brought him with me on this hunting trip._

Arthur shook his head. Whatever madness had come over him, he certainly wouldn’t act on it. Merlin was...Merlin. And truth be told, Arthur liked him that way. This confusion was transient, but friendship--his first friendship, his _only_ friendship-- _that_ would be lasting, if Arthur had anything to do with it. Arthur permitted himself a longer look at Merlin’s resting form. To judge by the slow rise and fall of his chest, Merlin had indeed fallen asleep. Arthur allowed himself to appreciate the curve of Merlin’s full lips, the brown of his nipples, the jutting of his hipbones where the muscles sloped down towards his groin. 

And then he turned his head away. He gathered their wet clothes as quietly as he could and hung them from branches in the sunlight. Then he walked back to their campsite and dressed himself. As he glanced back at the figure stretched out along the bank, Arthur shivered, but not from cold.

\-------------

Upon waking from a sun-drowsed nap on the pebbled shore, Merlin came to two realizations: Arthur was nowhere to be found, and neither were Merlin’s clothes. He stood self-consciously on the bank. It was odd, he thought. In Ealdor he and Will thought nothing of shedding their clothes and diving into the welcoming cool of the swimming hole. They might make lewd jokes--well, _Will_ might--but they were unbothered by their nudity, which felt all the more natural out in the woods, away from the village. 

But months of dressing and undressing Arthur had failed to make Merlin quite as indifferent to the prince’s nakedness as Merlin might have wished. Of course, as time wore on, the reason became more difficult for Merlin to deny. Of course Arthur was handsome: muscles sculpted by years of training, hair that caught the light and shone like gold, tanned skin that was no less beautiful in Merlin’s eyes for its several scars, and then there was his--well, it wasn’t appropriate to dwell on _that_ , but Merlin saw Arthur in the nude too often to pretend he hadn’t noticed _that_. And yet, in the end it wasn’t Arthur’s body that made Merlin blush. He had developed feelings for his master, feelings as strong as they were unwanted. 

Arthur had changed. And Merlin saw it. Beneath his arrogance, beneath his taunts and teasing, beneath his easy air of superiority, there was another Arthur. This Arthur sought out his advice, the advice of a serving boy from Ealdor. This Arthur wanted to know the daily lives of his subjects and understand their struggles. (Merlin was well aware that Arthur did more than listen, too. The reversals of fortune experienced by the subjects of Merlin’s stories was beyond serendipity, and Merlin was certain now that Arthur was behind them.) This Arthur carried himself with a brash confidence in public, but behind his chamber doors, Merlin was privy to his doubts, and they were many. It was excruciating to watch Arthur struggle with the expectations of his father and his own burgeoning code of beliefs. Uther was ruthless with his son, critical and domineering, but even so Merlin began to see signs of Arthur’s divergence from the path laid out for him since birth. He would not be a shadow cast by the mighty Uther Pendragon. He would be a greater king by far, and not because of a dragon’s prophecy, but because of his great heart. 

And Merlin loved him for it. Simple as that. 

But his feelings were entirely unhelpful in his present predicament. Arthur must have taken his clothes, _the prat!_ And now Merlin would have to walk back to camp naked to retrieve them. Arthur would make fun of his modesty. And maybe, Merlin’s fears whispered, he would mock Merlin’s gangly, unmuscular body, his thin frame and pale skin. Taking a deep breath and cursing his master in the most disrespectful terms, Merlin screwed up his courage and made his way back to the smell of campfire smoke and the soft neighing of horses. 

Arthur must have heard his approach, and yet when Merlin entered the clearing the prince did not look up from his work. Merlin darted towards his satchel and pulled on several layers of clothing. Despite the bright morning sun, the day promised to be a cold one, and it was some time before Merlin stopped shivering. 

Arthur was seated by the fire with a long slender branch across his lap and a look of fierce concentration on his face. Next to him, Merlin was surprised to see the fishing spear. Arthur seemed to be struggling with something. His hunting knife bit too deeply into the wood and as he struggled to pull it loose, the blade leaped free and twisted in his hand. A bright bloom of blood appeared instantly, but Arthur didn’t react. Instead he lowered his hand and looked up at Merlin with annoyance.

“Well. Now that you’ve slept the day away, perhaps you’d like some breakfast? Maybe a honeycake? What can I do for you, _Mer_ lin?” Merlin merely smiled. He retrieved a couple of items from his satchel and approached the prince, kneeling beside him. Arthur hissed as Merlin took his injured hand, but did not resist him. The cut was small but deep. Merlin washed it with his waterskin, applied a little salve, and wrapped it in clean gauze. Arthur simply watched Merlin work, an unreadable expression on his face.

“That should prevent infection,” Merlin said, neatly tucking the end of the gauze. “Now tell me, _Sire_ , what were you doing to sustain such a grievous battle wound?” 

Arthur cut his eyes at Merlin, but looked away again without answering. 

Merlin scanned the area around the prince. There was his fishing spear from the morning. There was Arthur’s hunting knife, the thin sapling, and, Merlin discovered, evidence of several discarded branches in the leaves around him. 

Merlin laughed and sat down beside Arthur, who was still radiating frustration and anger, although now Merlin was sure he was not the source or target of those feelings. “You really want to know how to make one? Why didn’t you just ask me to show you?” It was genuinely surprising. Fishing was not one of the pastimes of the nobility. It was a necessity of peasant life, albeit sometimes a pleasant one. 

Arthur didn’t respond right away, looking into the fire and absentmindedly feeling along the gauze wrapping on his injured hand. He sighed. Merlin could feel the tension fall away from him. Arthur laughed, softly, as if to himself. “It was...more challenging that I anticipated.” 

Merlin smiled at him. This time Arthur turned his head and acknowledged Merlin with a wry smile of his own. “Sire, why don’t I get us some breakfast. Then I can show you how we fish in _Ealdor_. _”_

\-------------

By the time the shadows began to lengthen and a chill wind whistled through the trees, Merlin was still no closer to understanding why Arthur had dragged him along for this trip. Arthur still assumed Merlin’s incompetence at every turn--or at least, he seemed far too impressed when Merlin demonstrated any skill at all. 

Which is why Merlin was surprised to spend the better part of a day teaching Arthur Pendragon, crown prince of Camelot, how to _fish_.

Even more surprising, he found in Arthur an apt and pliable pupil. Sure, the prince continued to mock and tease Merlin throughout, but he listened intently to Merlin’s instructions and watched him so closely that Merlin felt somewhat self-conscious. In the end Arthur fashioned not one, but three fishing spears, unsatisfied until his work was not only functional, but fairly elegant, like Merlin’s. 

After extracting a vow not to push him in again, Merlin agreed to take Arthur back out on the creek. Merlin should have expected it after watching Arthur train and spar, but he still caught his breath as the prince moved with catlike grace, easily keeping his balance on the loose and slippery stones. Arthur grew frustrated, however, when his trained eye and strong arm failed time and again to catch anything. 

“Aim _below_ the body of the fish,” Merlin repeated calmly. “You can’t trust your eyes. You have to use your head.” 

“I can’t see how you manage, then, _Mer_ lin.” But Arthur narrowed his eyes and dutifully adjusted his aim. 

For a long moment the spear lay lightly in Arthur’s raised hand, pointed but not aimed. Merlin was almost sure he could sense the moment Arthur chose his prey. His body hardly moved, but there was something wildly, ferociously _alive_ about his poise. The fat, sleek fish moved lazily past them. Merlin was certain Arthur had waited too long. 

And then a spear transfixed the fish so quickly and smoothly that the water’s surface hardly rippled. Arthur was already drawing it back with a triumphant exclamation as the unfortunate creature flailed once, twice and then stilled. Merlin grinned. There was something so joyful in Arthur’s movement, in his boyish cry of victory, Merlin couldn’t help himself.

Nevertheless, by the time Arthur twisted to show off his catch, Merlin made sure his face was impassive. He nodded his head in mild approval. 

“Not bad, not bad. Keep on like that, maybe you’ll even catch us something big enough to eat!”

Arthur leapt across the stones towards Merlin, who was caught off guard. The flopping fish, the spear, Arthur--all came flying towards him at an alarming speed. Merlin yelped and nearly lost his footing for a second time that day, but he caught himself and began an awkward run across the stones towards the relative safety of the bank. He didn’t pause to look back. He could hear Arthur gaining ground, and as the two men approached the bank, Merlin stumbled and fell. He threw up his hands in an gesture of submission. 

In an instant Arthur loomed over him with a mocking smile. He prodded Merlin’s ribs with the blunt end of the spear. “Tell me again, _Mer_ lin. How did I do?”

Merlin’s sides ached as he struggled to breath and stifle his laughter. “Oh great warrior-king, you have vanquished the mighty trout and all fish tremble before your pointy stick!” he intoned, gasping, “Truly, that is the fattest and most handsome of all fish and will make us a great feast.”

Arthur rested the spear against the ground and leaned on it. “Just so. Which is why I expect you to do an extra careful job of preparing it for me.”

“You’re not going to clean your own catch?” Merlin asked, incredulously. “If you don’t do it, how are you going to learn, _Siiire_?”

“That’s easy,” Arthur laughed. “I’ll sit by the fire and watch _you_ do it!”

Merlin grumbled and picked his way back to where his own catch, two good-sized greylings, were spitted on his own spear. He cursed all princes for prats and made sure to catch Arthur’s shoulder as he stomped upriver to begin the frigid process with numbed and chilly fingers. 

\------------

True to his word, Arthur did in fact watch Merlin clean the first fish. But when Merlin began work on the second, he made him explain every step of the process. And when Merlin pried the third fish loose from Arthur’s spear, Arthur snatched it right out of his hands. Merlin watched as Arthur methodically followed his example, movement by movement, until the viscera was removed and the flesh clean and filleted. 

Arthur seemed, in fact, to be intent on making Merlin his teacher for the better part of the day. (Not that the position afforded him any amount of deference or respect from his royal pupil, Merlin grumbled to himself.) Arthur alternated between watching him like a spoiled housecat, peppering him with questions, and insulting his intelligence. But when he did perform the task...well, it was almost as if Arthur wanted Merlin’s approval. So far he had learned to fashion a spear, fish in a moving stream, clean his catch, gather herbs to season it, and finally, as the day wore to a close, cook them evenly on each side, crisping the fatty skin just so before pulling them off to eat with his hands. 

Merlin side-eyed him. 

Arthur paused in the middle of licking his fingers clean, his thumb still held to his lips. “What?”

Merlin shrugged and turned back to the fire.

Arthur jabbed him with the slender spit and Merlin twisted away from him. 

“Ouch! Is that any way to treat your teacher?”

“Did you teach me anything today? Let’s see… Oh yes! How to fall in a stream, how to run away from a fight, how to scream like a girl--”

“I don’t know what I expected from a spoiled royal who can’t even dress himself. A five year old in Ealdor would have been a better student. And he wouldn’t be _burning our dinner as we speak!”_

At that, Arthur’s eyes widened and he whipped around to face the fire again. The last fish was still roasting perfectly. “You certainly have a thing to learn about funny, Merlin.”

Merlin poked at the fire thoughtfully. “Why did you want to learn all that? You’re never going to need it and it’s not exactly a noble sport. Don’t suppose it’ll win you a princess, either.”

Arthur smirked a little. “I certainly don’t need any help from _you_ to woo a princess, _Mer_ lin.” He folded his arms over his knees and continued without looking at Merlin. “I don't exactly know. It's just, sometimes I get palace staff to teach me things.”

“Like?” Merlin’s eyebrows rose with genuine interest.

“Hmm…cutting and tanning leather. Hard work and I don’t miss the smell. How to shoe a horse. And so help me Merlin if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll have your head. Gwen taught me...” His voice trailed off into a mumble. Merlin frowned, uncomprehending. 

“Excuse me?”

“ _She taught me to sew_ , alright Merlin? It’s _practical_ , you know! One of the stitches I learned is what Gaius uses to close a wound. And as for fishing, who’s to say I might not need to survive without hunting weapons?”

Merlin held up his hands to indicate his acceptance. 

“The houndskeeper, grouchy old thing, taught me to treat minor injuries. I learned from Gaius how to set a dislocated shoulder, although it wasn’t my favorite lesson.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow.

“It was _my_ shoulder, Merlin.”

Merlin gave a short laugh at that, but Arthur didn’t seem offended.

“Do you think it’s pointless? I’ll never master any of these skills.”

Merlin smiled to himself. It always warmed something in his chest when Arthur asked for his opinion.

“I think a wise king would want to know as much as he could learn. So he could better understand the lives of his people. And so he wouldn’t be such a helpless demanding prat!” Arthur raised the stick again threateningly, and Merlin backed down.

The sun was gone now and a pleasant rustling of leaves warned of a less pleasant change in the weather. Sure enough, the wind strengthened and the temperature dropped precipitously while they cleared away the remains of their meal and Merlin saw to the horses. The gentle rustling now made a sound like rain, although the sky remained mercifully dry. 

After settling their heavy saddle blankets on Hengroen and Llamrei, Merlin stamped his feet to warm them and sat close to the fire. He was still shivering. Arthur spared him a contemptuous look, but he rose and returned some minutes later with another bundle of wood. He stoked the fire until it leapt up, and kept rearranging the coals until Merlin scooted away and stopped shaking. Merlin shot him a tight smile, although he kept his travel cloak drawn tightly around his shoulders.

A sudden burst of inspiration hit him. Merlin considered the idea. It was practical, really. It would help warm them both up. But beneath that innocent reasoning, another plan was taking shape. He wanted to understand things, things Arthur was unwilling to tell him in their usual roles of prince and servant. But out here in the woods, those designations felt...softer, more malleable. After all, Merlin reasoned, it wasn’t idle curiosity. Arthur’s nightmares were truly frightening. And Arthur couldn’t even acknowledge them! The only way Merlin could help his master was if he understood, and for that he needed information. 

Merlin rose and dug through his pack. He returned carrying a wineskin. Arthur watched him with curiosity. “Something to keep you warm, sire. Thought it might come in handy.” Merlin passed Arthur the wineskin. Arthur accepted it, albeit suspiciously. 

“Does this mean my manservant can't go three days in the woods without a visit to the tavern? 

Merlin rolled his eyes. One day he would have to talk to Gaius about the originality of his excuses. “Oh, just drink up. You'll feel warmer.”

Sure enough, as they passed the wineskin back and forth, Arthur did begin to warm up. He felt a pleasant mellowness come over him. He found himself wanting conversation.

Merlin read his body language well after all these months. When Arthur’s shoulders began to sag and release and he no longer braced against the cold, Merlin saw his moment.

“You asked about Ealdor, my life before Camelot. Do you really want to know?

Arthur looked on the point of making a quip, but caught himself and nodded instead.

“My um,” Merlin began. This was harder than he’d anticipated. He cleared his throat. “It was just me and my mother, growing up. Being a," he swalllowed, ”A bastard in a little village, well, it made things difficult." 

Arthur looked at him curiously. “Your father?”

Merlin shook his head. “Gone before I was born. Doubt he even knows I exist. If he’s even alive.” Merlin looked down at his boots and fought against the unexpected prick of tears. Dammit, he was supposed to be getting Arthur to open up, not maundering on about his own feelings!

Arthur pressed on, “Do you know much about him?”

Merlin shrugged. “Mum...my mother, she doesn’t like to talk about him. And it makes her sad. So I don’t ask.” 

A long silence stretched between them. Arthur bumped the wineskin against Merlin’s knee. Merlin accepted it and drank without looking up.

Arthur broke the silence first. “It’s the same with my father. He never speaks about my mother, never even mentions her name. Sometimes it’s like she never existed.”

Merlin took a deep breath and tried to sound casual. “How um...how did she pass?” He shook his head. This wasn’t right, no matter how good his intentions. “Forget it. You don’t have to--”

“She died,” Arthur said softly, taking a swig. “When I was born. She died in childbirth.” He stopped speaking and Merlin realized he was holding his breath, waiting. “Because of me. She died because of me.” He took a long drink, wiped his mouth, and shoved the wineskin towards Merlin without looking up.

“Arthur. You know that wasn’t,” he rushed ahead, afraid he’d chicken out if he hesitated. “It wasn’t _your_ fault, Arthur. You didn’t kill her.”

Arthur gave a harsh laugh. “I might as well have done. That’s why he can’t forgive me. Why I’ll never be…” He trailed off. Through the warm haze of the wine, the night air cut cold against his cheeks where two tears ran down. He sniffed and roughly brushed his face with the heel of his hand. “S’not imprtant,” he slurred. 

“Arthur--” Merlin began, but Arthur was already planting a hand on Merlin’s shoulder to steady himself as he stood up. He cleared his throat. Still his voice was hoarse and tight.

“Goodnight, Merlin.” He dropped the wineskin next to Merlin and unsteadily made his way to his sleeping roll. 

“Goodnight, Arthur,” Merlin answered softly. 

Well. He had his answers. Now what was he supposed to do with them?

Merlin stayed awake for a long time. Even the wine couldn’t sooth the racing thoughts in his mind, nor the dull ache in his chest. But eventually Merlin followed Arthur’s example, and turned in for the night. The air was bitingly cold. Merlin snuggled down deep into the blankets and lay awake, listening for sounds of a nightmare, but none came. Neither did he hear Arthur’s familiar snore. Apart from the whipping of the wind through the trees and the occasional whinny, the unnatural silence suggested one thing: neither one of them was getting any sleep.

\-------------

Merlin rocked back and forth in his sleeping roll, tightening his blankets around him. He wasn’t sure now whether Arthur had fallen asleep, but he was relieved that he didn’t seem to be troubled by bad dreams. Merlin, on the other hand, was beginning to despair not only of sleeping, but of waking in the morning as anything but a frozen bundle that was vaguely Merlin-shaped. The wind had died down, but the temperature had dropped even further. 

He should have packed more blankets. He should have gathered wood before they slept. He shouldn’t have come on this damned hunting trip in the first place! The fire was burning low and the thought of leaving his blankets to find more fuel was unbearable. Merlin didn’t know when he’d ever been so cold. It was as if the chill crept from the ground up through his blankets and into his very bones. He shuddered and shuddered as his body tried to keep warm, and failed. He startled when Arthur spoke. 

“You’re not asleep.”

Merlin tried to control the chattering of his teeth and hissed back, “You’re n-not e-either.” 

“No, how can I be, with you making all that racket?”

“I’m c-cold, you p-p-prat! It’s freezing!” Merlin grabbed his blankets and tucked his knees up nearly to his chest in an effort to stop shivering. 

“Can’t you just sleep closer to the fire?”

“A-any c-closer and I’ll be i- _in_ the fire!” 

Arthur sighed dramatically. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut and tried, really tried not to hate him for that. “Well,” the prince drawled, “As there’s no chance of me sleeping anyway...” There was a rustling of blankets. Merlin opened his eyes and Arthur was standing over him, a bundle of blankets in his arms. “Budge up.”

“Wh-what are you d-doing?” Merlin stammered.

Arthur didn’t answer. He methodically laid out his sleeping roll alongside Merlin’s. While Merlin shivered and watched, Arthur pulled his heaviest woolen blanket free and tucked it around the side of Merlin closest to the fire. Merlin began to feel warmer almost at once. 

Then Arthur tugged the other end of the blankets loose. Merlin opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur was already stretching out at his side. Arthur inched closer and closer until his back touched Merlin’s along nearly its entire length. Then he draped the remaining blankets over them both.

“Come on, Merlin, this is what knights do on campaigns to keep warm. And it works a damn sight better without the chain mail, I can tell you that.” Arthur shivered a little from his brief exposure to the wind, and tucked the blankets in tightly around him. 

Merlin found himself able to breathe. The warmth from Arthur’s body didn’t reach him immediately, but as it began to seep beneath his shirt, he sighed audibly.

“That’s...so much better,” Merlin exhaled. His body no longer trembled and between Arthur and the campfire, he found himself able to relax the muscles tensed against the cold. A long moment of quiet stretched out between them. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“Go to sleep, Merlin.”

His admonition was scarcely necessary. Within moments Merlin found himself slipping into the beckoning darkness, surrounded by warmth and deeply content. Against his back, Arthur felt Merlin’s breathing slow and grow heavy. After a moment, a snore came from the bedroll beside him.

In the still of the night, Arthur closed his eyes and smiled. 

\-------------

The moon was no longer overhead when Merlin woke to movement beside him. Arthur was writhing in his sleep as much as his tightly tucked blankets would allow. His voice was low, but Merlin heard the familiar words and muffled cries. _Another nightmare._ Merlin sighed. A part of him protested against being woken, but as sleep fell away from him, Merlin felt the anguish of the man beside him and his resentment faded. _It must happen all the time_ , Merlin thought. _And I never knew._

_“Just hold on...please...”_ Arthur cried out. “ _Mother!”_ With Merlin so close, the words were painfully clear. _“'Sorry...sorry...sorry...I’m sorry…_ ” Arthur sobbed in his sleep.

Turning away from the fire was awkward, with the blankets wrapped around them both, but Merlin managed it. He took a breath to steady his nerves. Then he slid his arm beneath Arthur’s, splaying his fingers across the prince’s chest, and drew him into a tight hold. He reached his other arm out of the blankets, into the cold, and found Arthur’s hair. He stroked along his forehead, gently but firmly. Arthur stiffened for a moment, and Merlin's breath caught. Had he awakened? But then it was as if all the strength drained from him. He sank into Merlin’s embrace, and went limp. 

Merlin lay awake with his body wrapped around the prince’s. His heart pounded with the nearness of Arthur, the boldness of his own actions. He’d chased away the nightmare, but now what? Should he withdraw again? Turn away, go to sleep, and make it easier for Arthur to pretend nothing had happened? He realized that his muscles ached from holding his body rigid, unable to decide whether to draw closer or pull away.

Arthur grunted and Merlin froze. The prince’s fingers closed around Merlin’s wrist and dragged his arm further across Arthur’s strong chest, before relaxing and effectively pinning him there. Still in disbelief, Merlin allowed himself to be drawn tight against Arthur’s body. His heart thudded and his breath caught with something like fear, fear...and something else very different.

“Go sleep, M’rlin,” Arthur murmured, and he inched backwards until Merlin felt his breath on the bare skin of Arthur’s neck.

Dumbfounded, Merlin obeyed. Muscle by muscle, he forced himself to relax. His heartbeat slowed, though the strange, sweet ache in his breast did not subside. A feeling of warmth dulled his thoughts and impossibly, he felt himself begin to drowse. 

Above them the dark canopy rustled, and high above that the night sky was cloudless and cold. Innumerable stars emerged and peeked through the leaves, keeping silent watch over the prince and his servant.


	4. The Fourth Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day brings new revelations to Arthur and Merlin, but who can say where the night will take them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was advised to publish this as an "Unmerry Christmas present" or "Unhappy Hannukah" gift, because the events in this chapter are gonna be a bit rough. However, angst lovers? Eat your hearts out. Just...so much angst.

Morning is not a single event, but a series of moments. There is the first moment in which grey sky can be distinguished from black branches. There is the first bird, and then the second, and then the third. There is the moment the gangly fawn unfolds itself from the thicket and snaps a dry branch under its slender hoof, startling all nearby creatures awake.

Merlin experienced the morning as brief moments of awareness, interspersed with timeless slides back into the sweet welcoming dark. In one moment, his angular body protested the hard ground with a burst of sharp needle-like pains. Sleep overtook him for a time. Then another moment brought the sensation of cold on his back, and the knowledge that the fire had burned out. Still he bobbed just beneath the current of the day, enjoying a feeling of comfort and contentment despite the morning chill. And as with most mornings, he dozed through a pleasant warming in his belly, which grew into a spreading sense of desire. He began to stretch, still half-asleep, twisting his hips to grind his erection into the warm blankets.

And suddenly Merlin was awake--perhaps more completely awake than ever before in his life--for morning had found him startled, disoriented, and _achingly_ hard. And every inch of his body was pressed against that of his master, Arthur, the prince of bloody Camelot.

Merlin froze. _Oh gods, could Arthur feel that? Feel...him?_ He edged away from the prince but found he could move very little without untucking the blankets wound around them. Maybe Arthur hadn't noticed. But how could he not feel Merlin’s hardness pressing against his buttocks without so much as a shred of blanket between them? It would have been funny if it weren’t a total catastrophe. Any second now Arthur would certainly awaken--and what would happen then? It didn’t bear thinking about. Terror overcame caution and Merlin scrambled to extricate himself from the blankets. To make matters worse, his cock seemed to be undeterred by his panicked escape attempts. If anything, he was even more aroused. 

Merlin groaned.

His groan was answered by a faint but unmistakable moan. As Merlin lay frozen in mute terror, Arthur arched his back and slowly ground his hips against Merlin's stiff cock.

 _Oh gods_ , Merlin thought. _He’s dreaming_ . Arthur was probably having a morning _situation_ of his own and was only moving out of instinct, in his sleep. If he realized what Merlin was feeling, how his body was responding to Arthur’s, the prince would probably have him executed. Frankly, Merlin thought execution sounded like an improvement over his current situation. He had to get away. 

But _oh_ , he shuddered, how much he wanted to stay.

Reluctantly Merlin began to unwind the blankets that had rolled beneath him in sleep. He found one end and untucked it and now he began to be able to move. Unfortunately, in his efforts to pull the rest of the blanket loose, he rolled forward those few inches that separated him from Arthur and had to bite his lip not to moan at the sensation. His breath was loud in his ears, uneven and too quick. He screwed his eyes shut and willed himself to calm down as he continued to work the covers free.

Finally! Merlin’s contortions had succeeded in loosening the last of the blankets. Now if he could just slip free without waking the prince, maybe he could find some privacy in the woods to resolve his... _situation_...without being discovered. Merlin inched away from Arthur.

Who immediately inched backwards to follow him, squirming up against Merlin’s hip until his cock was once again pressed flush against Arthur’s beautiful arse. Unable to catch himself, Merlin gasped aloud.

 _Gods above_ , this was an unmitigated disaster. Merlin was fairly certain he was going to die of embarrassment or arousal, or some fatal combination of the two. Any second now Arthur would wake up and realize whose warm body was pressed against his own and just how that body was reacting. He pictured the look of disgust on Arthur’s face and it cut him to the quick. Compared to seeing that look every day, it would almost be a mercy if the prince simply fired him and sent him packing. Maybe Merlin would just go back to Ealdor. So much for destiny. So much for Albion. And all because Merlin had the self-control of an adolescent boy when it came to Arthur.

He gritted his teeth, determined this time to make his escape, whatever the cost. Even if Arthur woke up now, it was still possible to laugh it off or ignore the situation altogether. But every moment he spent blanketed in warmth, stretched against Arthur’s muscular back, cock all but nestled in the warm cleft of his arse, made it harder to imagine not moving against him, seeking that delicious friction even if it brought him closer to discovery. Merlin tensed, preparing to drag himself away once and for all.

And then a hand wrapped itself around his waist, fingers splayed, thumb tucked against his hipbone; it held him firmly in place. Merlin’s heart pounded in terror. His head swam with confusion. And in spite of it all his cock throbbed obstinately. _This isn’t happening. This_ can’t _be happening._

And then came Arthur’s sardonic drawl, muffled a little by sleep: “Stop thinking, Merlin. It _really_ doesn’t suit you.”

“I…” Merlin’s words caught in his throat as Arthur rolled his hips unbearably slowly, deliberately, dragging against Merlin’s erection. “Oh gods, Arthur,” he breathed, “I was just…I wasn't…”

“Merlin,” Arthur grunted. “Shut. Up.”

Something like a sob escaped Merlin’s lips as he surrendered. And then they were sealed against each other, rocking in tandem, Arthur guiding Merlin by the hip into a rhythm that soon had him gasping for air. He dropped his head forward onto Arthur’s shoulder and tasted the sharp but pleasant tang of his sweat. Shaking with desire, Merlin found the courage to slide his arm under Arthur’s, this time groping until his fingers found the prince’s own shapely cock, straining against his breeches. Arthur’s breath juddered from his chest as Merlin palmed him through the material. “Ahhh, ah...gods, yes... _yes_ , Merlin,” Arthur panted, thrusting up into Merlin’s fist. Merlin found the position a little difficult, but not so different from touching himself. Arthur spasmed when Merlin reached lower and tugged at his balls. His fingertips dug into Merlin’s hip with bruising intensity. Merlin buried his face against Arthur’s neck and fought the urge to kiss and mark the sweat-slicked skin. He angled his hips and his cock slipped even deeper between Arthur’s arse cheeks. The friction was already carrying him close to the edge, but Merlin was determined to bring Arthur off first. His strokes quickened and Arthur moaned in pleasure.

And then Merlin lost himself to the call of his own desire. Still tugging Arthur’s cock with frantic motions, he pressed kisses to Arthur’s neck--and he _bit_.

Arthur cried aloud as the fabric under Merlin’s hand was drenched in sudden warmth. Unrestrained, Merlin grabbed Arthur’s hips and roughly pulled him close. He rutted against his prince, who still squirmed with each pulse of his own release. And then, against the black of eyes squeezed shut, colors exploded and Merlin came, hard, heavy, the taste of Arthur in his mouth.

❧

They lay still entwined as their sweat cooled and their heartbeats slowed. Merlin scarcely dared to breathe. He found himself caught between the desire to draw Arthur closer, and fear of how much he’d already dared, warning him to let go. Fear won out. Merlin began to withdraw his shaking hand.

Arthur caught it. 

“ _Don’t_ ,” he said raggedly. And then softer, more controlled, “Please.”

It was strange to hear the doubt in his voice. Arthur was always so sure, so domineering. Merlin heard it for what it was, a plea and not an order. If Arthur was daring to be so vulnerable, Merlin wasn’t about to let him do so alone. Instead, Merlin slid his hand across Arthur’s waist, fingertips resting gently on his belly. He tightened his grip and drew Arthur close, breathed in the campfire smoke in his hair, mixed with the scent of sweat and sex.

The moment felt taut, like the string of a lute, silent but full of potential. Though neither of them spoke, Merlin felt sure Arthur wanted to say something. Finally he asked, “What is it, Sire?”

Arthur chuckled softly at the formality. “You touched me. I remember. Last night you turned over and you...touched me. Why did you do that? No one touches me.”

Merlin let himself snuggle against Arthur, warm and soft compared with the cold at his back or the ground under his shoulder. He reached up and stroked Arthur's forehead. "Like that?" 

Arthur closed his eyes involuntarily. "Yes. It's...nice."

"My mother. I used to have nightmares and I'd wake up to her doing that and fall right back to sleep."

"What did you have nightmares about?"

 _The monster. Me. Your father. Pyres and axes._ Merlin blinked and searched for an answer. “Fire,” he finally replied. It was mostly true. “What are your nightmares about?” He blurted out the question before he could change his mind.

Arthur was silent for a time. Merlin readied himself for a denial. Instead, Arthur said, “I’m not entirely sure. This time, when I woke up, I could remember...things. Not everything, just...impressions.”

Merlin wanted badly to ask, but he restrained himself. Arthur didn’t elaborate.

“I suppose I owe you an apology,” Arthur said.

“What for?”

“It seems that princes do have nightmares. Though I would prefer you kept that information to yourself, _Mer_ lin.”

“Of course. Sire.” 

Merlin rested his forehead against Arthur’s neck where a half circle of neat marks reminded him that this morning was not a dream. He wanted to kiss there again. He wanted to see Arthur’s eyes looking back at his, to see his prince’s face at the moment of release. But it was too delicate, too tenuous. Instead he asked, “Why does no one touch a prince? Isn’t a prince...well...a man?”

“That’s treason, Merlin.” Arthur grunted, repositioning himself slightly, but not breaking contact. “A prince is a man with power. And people who want power will do anything to get close to it. The closer someone is, the more dangerous they are. Trust is one luxury a prince can’t afford. A king, even less.”

The implication hung in the air. Merlin felt a pang of guilt. Arthur _could_ trust him. Merlin would never betray him. No prophecy about the Once and Future King could have bound him to Arthur more completely than his own heart. But did he dare trust him? What would happen to this moment if Merlin confessed? He couldn’t think past the flames of the pyre, the danger to Gaius, the grief of his mother. Anger flared up inside him at Uther’s war against magic and its innumerable victims. Arthur’s faith in Merlin was just one more casualty of war.

The silence stretched on. Finally Arthur asked in a casual tone, “Do commoners...do this? In Ealdor, is that something you...I mean people…” Arthur cleared his throat and fell silent again. 

Merlin wondered if the prince could feel him smile. Arthur’s indifferent tone was far too affected to fool him. “Do this?” He tenderly stroked Arthur’s forehead again. Arthur swatted his hand away. 

“No. Idiot. You know what I mean. _This,_ ” he spluttered, and hugged Merlin’s arm to his chest. “And...this.” He pressed his body into Merlin’s and Merlin knew that Arthur would feel the beginning of his arousal return, _the smug bastard_. 

“Mmmph,” Merlin mused, nuzzling into the hair at Arthur’s nape and breathing in. This morning felt as though it existed outside of time and reality, and Merlin was damned if he was going to forget one moment of it. “Do you mean, do all commoners share such easy virtue as your manservant? Or are you asking about me in particular?”

“I mean...dammit, Merlin, I mean _people_ . Not courtiers, not royals, just... _people_. Do they touch like this?”

“Like your courtiers and royals, I would think, it depends on the person.”

Arthur huffed. “Fine. Then _you_ , Merlin. Tell me about _you_.”

Merlin dared a feather-light kiss on the back of Arthur’s neck and was rewarded with an excellent shiver that traveled all the way down Arthur’s body. He felt like he should be embarrassed, but it was _Arthur_ , and he wasn’t teasing for once; he was almost painfully sincere. Merlin still ducked his head and blushed as he answered, “I had a mate back in Ealdor. We were kids together. When we started to grow up...and change...we sometimes tried things.”

“ _Things_ , Merlin?” 

Merlin butted his head against Arthur’s neck. “We, um. We used to, ah...touch ourselves. But...when we were together.”

Arthur started to shake with silent laughter in his arms, but his voice was steady as he pursued, “And?”

Merlin sighed. “And sometimes...help. Each other.” He grimaced. The shaking intensified. Merlin rushed the next words, _“And sometimes we’d race._ You know, you’re not a prince, you’re a great bloody tyrant Arthur Pendragon!” 

Now Arthur was all but convulsing in Merlin’s arms, only just holding in his laughter. Merlin dug his bony fingers in right under the prince’s arms, into the muscles over his ribs, and tickled as only the son of Hunith of Ealdor could tickle. Arthur writhed and writhed, never quite giving him the satisfaction of laughing out loud, but not pulling away either. Finally, either by accident or intent Merlin didn’t know, Arthur elbowed him right in the solar plexus and they both spent a few minutes trying to recover their breath.

“And,” Arthur’s voice sounded wheezy still, “And that’s all?”

Merlin shrugged one shoulder. “After Will discovered girls, that was pretty much it. I never really found the time...or the person...to try much else. Are you disappointed, Sire?” Merlin lowered his voice. “I could always tell you exactly _how_ helpful I could be.” His lips brushed Arthur’s ear and he breathed warmly against the sensitive skin just behind it. 

“I think that’s as much as I want to know about this...Will, did you say?” Arthur’s tone was lordly. “But someday I might be willing to let you _show_ me.” 

Merlin blinked. His head felt fuzzy, suddenly. He realized that his mind had gone completely blank for a moment, he didn’t know how long, when Arthur suggested that there might be _another time_. That he might want Merlin to touch him...again. 

“Sorry. I didn’t...I was only joking, Merlin,” and suddenly Arthur was pushing his hands away and starting to shove himself upright. “Of course you don’t have to...I’d never ask you to--”

Merlin’s mind snapped back to the present. He grabbed Arthur’s shoulders and dragged him back to the blankets. “You idiot,” he interrupted, “ _Of course I want to_.” Merlin tightened his arms around Arthur’s waist until he felt him exhale a sigh.

“Oh. Alright then.” Arthur stretched dramatically and rolled over on his back, looking Merlin right in the eye for the first time that morning. Blue eyes met blue. Their chests heaved. Their hearts pounded. Merlin leaned over the prince and softly stroked his cheek. Against the dust a single tear track stood out. Merlin wondered when it had formed and why. He slid his fingers into Arthur’s hair and underneath his neck. Arthur’s expression was uncharacteristically soft and unguarded. Merlin dipped his head as Arthur surged up to meet him.

They kissed slowly at first. Merlin’s lips were fuller and slightly chapped, but Arthur’s were pillow soft. Arthur took Merlin’s lower lip between his own and then chased it with his tongue. Merlin moaned into his mouth and Arthur opened to him, letting Merlin slide inside and explore for a moment, before pushing back. Arthur’s mouth felt dry with anticipation, but Merlin’s was warm and wet and inviting. His taste reminded Arthur of the spiced wine they shared. Merlin lowered himself across Arthur’s body, bracketing his head with his long forearms. 

Arthur arched up against him, hands finding Merlin’s waist and drawing him tighter, letting him feel how much Arthur wanted him. Their kisses became more frantic as Merlin began to rock his hips against Arthur’s. They gasped as their cocks began to slide against each other, less at the sensation than at the wonder of this impossible moment. They kissed again and again, and their teeth clacked as skill lost out to enthusiasm, but they gave themselves over to chasing the spark that leapt back and forth between them.

Later, when Merlin lay collapsed across his chest, Arthur still felt that spark. If anything, it was brighter, hotter, wilder. Arthur could feel in his bones that Merlin would give anything, _anything_ Arthur asked of him. Which, Arthur reminded himself, was a very good reason not to let things get any further out of hand this morning. He felt dazed with pleasure and shaken with tenderness for this impudent brat of a manservant in his arms, his best friend, his _Merlin_ , the man he lo--

Arthur hushed his own thoughts, as if Merlin might hear them. If what he felt were real, if it were wanted and reciprocated, there would be time to explore that word and all the words Arthur had never had a use for until Merlin. For now, it would be best to try to remember how the world worked, before it turned upside down on him again.

Merlin began to snore. 

“Hey,” Arthur hissed. “No. None of that now. I’m going down to the creek to freshen up a bit. You’re getting our breakfast together.”

“Breakfast,” Merlin mumbled, approvingly. 

“I gave you an order, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur grunted. Merlin hummed contentedly against his neck. “You leave me no choice,” and his sword-calloused fingers sought out the lowest part of Merlin’s belly, the thin, ticklish skin just inside his hipbones. Merlin’s eyes shot open and he twisted to get away from Arthur. They rolled and when Arthur came out on top, he stood suddenly and yanked the blankets with all his might.

Merlin spun away from the burnt-out campfire, swearing colorfully at Arthur. Arthur strolled over and placed one booted foot on Merlin’s chest. He smiled broadly down at him. “Half a dozen rashers, roasted apple, and the last of the honeycakes you think I don’t know you’ve stashed away. Quick as you like!” And he leaped away before Merlin could catch him, whistling merrily, already well on his way to the creek.

Merlin sat up on one elbow and watched him. “I hope you freeze your royal bits off!” he hollered after the retreating figure.

“No, you don’t!” The words drifted back to him.

Merlin shook his head and bit his lip thoughtfully. “No, I don’t,” he admitted aloud. And then he grinned until his cheeks hurt, and folded his arms behind his head. “You prat. I really, really don’t.” 

And he stared up into the patches of bright morning sky not covered by the tree canopy, lost in thought and pleasantly dreamy, until he could hear Arthur’s footsteps returning from the creek.

❧

The hours passed quickly from the morning well into the afternoon, filled with a certain boyish one-ups-manship. Merlin showed Arthur how to weave fishing and small game traps. Arthur insisted that Merlin learn to load, aim, and fire a crossbow properly. After the morning’s events, both Merlin and Arthur seemed determined to behave normally, with one notable exception: the sudden absence of roughhousing. Their teasing and insults were even more frequent than usual, but both young men seemed to be aware that something had shifted after that morning. The slightest, most accidental touch was now weighted with potential and consequence. It was as if they both knew that the end of the day was tinged with mysteries beyond their fumbling, fleeting pleasure. They stood on the edge of some great precipice, poised upon a bridge that, once crossed, did not admit return. 

Instead, Merlin showed Arthur how to bait a trigger snare for fishing, and how to weave a kind of basket that larger fish could enter but not escape, both methods more practical in Ealdor than standing on a river bank for hours. Throughout, Arthur showed the same competence and enthusiasm as he had for the spearfishing lessons. He continued to rib Merlin mercilessly, all the while striving to earn his approval. For his part, Merlin knew Arthur too well to flatter him with falsehoods. Arthur wanted to learn properly, so Merlin channeled Hunith at her most patient and Gaius at his most exacting. In fact Merlin, though he didn’t realize it, was quickly becoming a capable teacher in his own right.

But while Arthur was an eager pupil, Merlin found himself rather more reluctant. He’d no interest in learning the martial arts beyond what swordfighting he’d picked up from acting as Arthur’s practice dummy. But Arthur insisted that Merlin learn to defend himself, and since Merlin wasn’t about to confess his true abilities, there was nothing for it but to comply. And complain. Merlin complained about the ache in his shoulder from throwing a spear. _If you had any military experience that didn’t come from polishing my armor,_ Mer _lin, you’d have hit the target before wearing out your throwing arm._ He complained about the dangers of crossbows. _There’s a reason I showed you to steady the barrel with a flat palm,_ Mer _lin, or did you want to go home with only eight or nine digits?_ He complained about chasing quarrels and fletching new ones. _The royal armory won’t always be at your disposal,_ Mer _lin, so it would behoove you to pay attention to the difference between a feather and a leaf._

But there was no lesson that Merlin actually resisted learning, that is, until knife throwing. Granted, his shoulder was already protesting from hurling spears all morning. And yes, even Arthur was willing to admit that throwing one’s weapon away was not the first, second, or even third defensive technique he would recommend. But really what tore it was the demonstration. Why would Arthur expect a demonstration to persuade him, Merlin whinged, If it was being performed _on Merlin_ himself? 

First Arthur made him hold a heavy split log in front of his chest. Then Arthur laughed when Merlin flinched at the three embedded knives quivering in the block over his heart. But the last straw was when Arthur offered him an apple. For a moment, Merlin softened. After all, Arthur could clearly see he was unravelling Merlin’s nerves. The gesture was soft and thoughtful and altogether different from Arthur’s demeanor during instruction. 

Then Merlin took a bite and Arthur held up a hand. “Perfect, hold it right in your teeth, just like that,” Arthur said. Merlin took one look at Arthur, busy selecting a throwing knife, and turned tail into the woods, swearing as he went. When Arthur tracked him down, Merlin was sitting on a log with his back turned to the campsite, chomping down on the last of the apple and chewing aggressively. He turned his head away when Arthur sat down beside him. 

“You’re an arse,” Merlin snarled.

“And a royal one,” Arthur finished. He sighed. “I--” Arthur coughed and cleared his throat and began again. “I’m….I’m sorry. I was showing off. I wouldn’t have hurt you. You know that, right? Don’t you trust me?”

Merlin snorted.

“Alright, that’s fair. I should have asked what you wanted and I should have listened when you said no.”

Merlin turned his head slightly in Arthur’s direction and slid his eyes to look at his face. Apparently whatever he saw there mollified him sufficiently to answer. “Yes. You should have. And I _do_ trust you. It’s not that...it’s just...I mean, what if I’d said yes and then I flinched? Or, or a fly bit you! How can you be so sure, so _arrogantly sure_ , you wouldn’t make a mistake?” He imitated Uther, “‘Oh, what a pity, there goes poor Mervyn. Bring in the next manservant for his highness the prince!’ I’m not dispensable, you know, just because I’m a servant.” 

Arthur leaned in and butted Merlin’s shoulder with his own. “You’re not dispensable, Merlin. Not as a servant and not as a friend. Least of all to me.”

Merlin grunted.

“Shoulder still hurts?”

Merlin nodded. 

“Look, why don’t we call it a day? I’ll check the traps, you pack up the camp, and we’ll ride a couple of hours and set up for the night. And then maybe you can show me how to give you a proper shoulder massage. But not a word of this goes back to Camelot,” Arthur finished, suddenly stern.

Merlin turned to him and laughed. “Wouldn’t want the palace to know that Arthur gives his manservant _shoulder rubs_? That’s the big secret here?”

Arthur laughed in spite of himself, which set Merlin off again. It was the closest either had come to acknowledging their morning tryst, and suddenly the ridiculous nature of their predicament had them wheezing and teary-eyed. For whatever they had, whatever it meant, it was undeniably _something_ now. And then the two men sat side by side, a sudden heat rising between them. Arthur realized that he was staring at Merlin’s mouth. Merlin caught himself panting for breath and self-consciously ran his tongue over his lips, which were suddenly dry. Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. They drew closer together. Arthur’s hand groped for Merlin’s.

And then the prince let out an undignified squawk. He brought his hand up, now holding the rather mushy apple core that had rested in Merlin’s palm. Merlin’s other hand covered his mouth uselessly as he laughed and shook his head, blue eyes twinkling. Arthur rolled his eyes and chucked the apple core far into the woods, and then wiped his hand against his breeches. The moment was broken, and a sudden awkwardness fell over them.

“Right. Well, I’m going to…” Arthur trailed off.

“Yeah, and I’d better start…” Merlin answered. 

They both stood at the same time and stepped over the log, beginning the short walk back to their campsite, shoulder to shoulder but not quite touching. From moment to moment, they would sneak glances to each other. By unspoken agreement, it seemed, they would wait for darkness to find out what would happen next. Right now it was easier to be just a prince and his manservant on a hunting trip, striking camp in the late afternoon sunlight. 

But tonight, their breathless silence seemed to say, tonight in the darkness they would be Arthur and Merlin once again. 

❧

Merlin stooped to pick up each bedroll and shake out the blankets. It took a moment to separate Arthur’s covers from his own, and that alone set Merlin’s heart to an embarrassing sort of flutter beneath his ribcage. He smiled to himself. This was truly madness. Whatever _this_ was, it only began to make sense out here in the woods, away from the court and the town, away from the roles they’d been assigned to play. But Merlin wouldn’t refuse the wild joy racing under his skin. It was a feeling as potent as magic and even more intoxicating. No, wherever this led, Merlin wasn’t turning back and he was done denying his feelings.

And maybe...well, it was a stupid sort of “what if?” but...if Arthur felt the way Merlin did--and Merlin was past pretending, now--if it was more than bodies and pleasure...if Arthur could... _love_ Merlin, well, shouldn’t that make anything possible? Was it even possible to imagine that Arthur would love Merlin in spite of his magic--or even because of it? The day was far away, Merlin reminded himself, when he could reveal his secret to Arthur. But he wanted to be _known_ by Arthur. Not to take the praise for saving his royal arse or to unveil the destiny they shared or even just to hear the words, “Thank you, Merlin.” He wanted to stand before Arthur with no deception between them and offer him the same fealty Merlin’s actions proclaimed every day. He wanted to offer himself--body, soul, heart, magic--everything to Arthur, and show his prince, his _king_ , how worthy he was of such devotion.

Merlin shook his head. He was getting swept up in dreams. This much was real: only hours before, he had held Arthur Pendragon in his arms, and within hours he would again. Merlin held today in the palm of his hand. Tomorrow could take care of itself. 

He nearly walked into a tree at the edge of the clearing. He could blame the tall pile of blankets in his arms, but it would be more accurate to blame his head in the clouds. Carefully threading his way between the trees, he reached for Llamrei’s saddle to attach his own roll. 

That’s when he heard it. Llamrei snorted first, then Hengroen. Merlin was puzzled. It was a sound of alarm, uneasiness. But it was only late afternoon. Wolves or other predators were unlikely hunters at this hour. Still Llamrei’s ears flicked forward and back and Hengroen stamped at the ground. Merlin dropped the rolls and stood tall, scanning the woods for the threat.

Something locked itself around his throat. The horses shied and whinneyed with alarm as Merlin flailed in the iron grip. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Already his vision darkened to tiny pinpricks of light and there was no air, no air anywhere. Merlin jabbed one of his bony elbows into the form behind him, but there was no strength left in his body. He went limp, hoping against hope that it would cause his attacker to drop him, but instead he heard a rough voice at his ear:

“That’s right, that’s right, nice and easy. Why don’t you just take a rest? We’ll manage alright on our own.”

Blackness overtook him as Merlin’s body dropped, senseless, to the ground.

❧

Merlin came around slowly, with a headache worse than the worst day of mace practice with Arthur. There was still a ringing in his ears and he realized that he had no idea how long he’d been out, whom his attackers were, or where Arthur was. The awful chokehold was gone, but he still struggled to expand his lungs. And something was rough against his back as well. He was standing, it occurred to him, or at least upright.

Ah. His foggy brain began to work. He was bound, and that’s why he didn’t fall. The tightness in his chest was from his rope bindings. The roughness at his back was the bark and protruding branches of a tree trunk. As his ears began to function again, Merlin made out crude language and male voices. Three, no, four of them? Merlin groaned. Bandits. 

“Wake up, my little man, it’s no use pretending.”

Merlin stayed limp. A heavy hand cracked across his cheek, snapping his neck to the side. Merlin gasped in shock, eyes open wide now. 

“That’s better, that’s better. You’re very lucky, my little man. Your master is a noble, isn’t he? That means you’re still useful to us. Long as you can carry a ransom note, there’s no reason you shouldn’t come out of this safe as houses, and maybe pocket a little coin for yourself, eh?” 

Merlin’s eyes focused with difficulty on the speaker. Heavyset but muscular, and nearly bald, he was clearly the leader. As Merlin’s eyes darted from side to side, he saw the other three bandits pause and watch the big one. 

“Wha--wha’ makes you think I’m a noble? A noble...manservant?” Merlin slurred nonsensically. It wasn’t difficult to pretend; his brain was working very hard to keep up with this conversation. He reached inside for his magic, but he was too disoriented to focus. 

An enormous hand pinched Merlin’s jaw tight and tilted his head up. He found himself looking directly into the bandit’s ruddy face. “Don’t. Play. Games,” he hissed, and then swung his fist into Merlin’s abdomen. Merlin retched and gasped for air. The bandit signalled to one of his men, who handed him something. Merlin’s heart sank when he saw it: Arthur’s signet ring. He would have left it in his saddlebag for safekeeping, especially if he planned to fish a little down by the creek. They might not know the insignia, but they couldn’t mistake it for anything but a nobleman’s ring at the very least.

“Now. We’ve been helpful to you, letting you keep your precious blood inside your body. Time to be helpful to us. Call your master.”

Merlin screwed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Won’t.”

This time the bandit leader hit him three times in succession, stepping back quickly as Merlin vomited up the morning’s breakfast. He hung limp in his bonds, struggling to catch his breath. His magic lay under his skin, just out of reach, separated from him by wave upon wave of pain and nausea. Behind him, the horses shook their heads and neighed, backing away from the tree where Merlin was bound.

The leader grabbed a handful of Merlin’s hair and pulled his head up to eye level. “You’re a very loyal servant, ain’t you, boy? Let me make this easy for you. Call your master back and we’ll deal with him _gentle_. Wouldn’t want to hurt him anyway. He’s much more valuable for ransom. But if you’re not going to be coop’rative, you’re no use to us at all. Call him, boy, or I’ll cut your throat for you. You’ll be dead and we’ll still be waiting right here for your master.”

Gods, it was true, Merlin realized. If he called out a warning, they’d kill him and Arthur would still come charging in like the brave idiot he was. If he stayed silent, they’d kill him and Arthur would eventually return from the creek to an ambush. Merlin coughed to clear his throat. It felt raw and shredded. He made ready to speak, praying with all his might that Arthur’s instincts would know something was off.

“My Lord,” Merlin called out. Even to himself, his voice sounded hoarse and ruined. Good, he thought. Another clue for Arthur. “My Master, will you not return? I’ve readied supper. Four fat fish in the stewpot, just waiting for your Lordship. And plenty of honeycakes, just as your Lordship requested.” Merlin held his breath. Had he been too obvious? They’d eaten the last of the honeycakes for breakfast. It seemed like years ago, that morning when Merlin watched Arthur lick the sticky sweet nectar from his fingers, his own pupils blown wide with desire.

There was no answer. Merlin hung his head. Either Arthur couldn’t hear him or...had he abandoned Merlin to his fate? No, Merlin thought fiercely, the idea was absurd. Arthur would never leave a man behind. That meant that the prince had a plan of his own. Merlin swallowed hard and waited, hoping against hope that Arthur could find a way to save them both.

❧

Down at the creek, Arthur brandished his prize: he’d snuck Merlin’s fishing spear away to give himself one more opportunity to develop his skills. All in all, he’d still only caught the one trout. The rest of the catches had been Merlin’s. And yes, Merlin had taught him that afternoon was a poor time to fish, and yes, so far he’d been quite correct. The handful of fish Arthur had seen in the last hour didn’t rise near enough to the surface to catch. The traps were likewise empty when Arthur checked them. Again, no surprise given the time of day they’d been placed. But he still coveted this time on the creek. Who knew when such days would come again?

Suddenly Arthur stood up straight and perfectly still. Why? He wondered. No nearby animal crouched or crept near the fishing hole. The birds were calm in the trees, lulled into quiet by the warm afternoon sun. Still something unsettled him. 

Arthur shrugged it off and returned to his fishing. Intellectually he knew that Merlin’s spear was probably not so much better than his own, but he wielded it like a lucky charm. There! Closer, closer, he whispered to the beautiful fat greyling drifting lazily near the surface. He drew his arm back and measured the angle with his eyes, preparing to strike.

In the next moment he forgot about his prey altogether. Merlin’s voice drifted down from the campsite to him, only it was...wrong. Merlin’s voice sounded raspy and strange, and it was pitched oddly. And the words were pure nonsense. _My Lord?_ If Merlin meant to play some kind of prank on Arthur, he’d badly missed his mark. _Supper? Honeycakes? Four fat fish in the stewpot…_

 _Shit,_ Arthur thought. That’s when he knew what had unsettled him. Distant as they were, he realized now he’d heard the horses signal their discomfort. There were people in the campsite. Hostile. An ambush.

And they had Merlin.

❧

Arthur crept through the woods, feeling naked without his sword, without even his hunting leathers. He was armed with only what he’d taken to the creek: Merlin’s fishing spear and his own hunting knife. _Four of them_ , he thought, remembering Merlin’s cryptic message. He prayed in that moment that Merlin hadn’t paid the price for his warning. 

He could not afford to be slow. They might grow impatient and kill their hostage. He could not afford to be loud. His only possible advantage was surprise and that depended on stealth. He could not afford to be careless. He would have one opportunity to even the odds. One opportunity to save Merlin.

As the trees began to thin on the outskirts of their campsite, Arthur moved in a wide circle. He would not emerge from the creek path or anywhere they’d be likely to expect, and he’d be able to see them before they saw him.

True enough, Arthur found himself looking in on a scene that stopped his heart. Merlin was bound to a tree, barely supporting himself. Arthur could spot four bandits in all, just as Merlin warned him. Two stood near the horses and Merlin. Another two stood at opposite sides of the circle and scanned the path and the nearby woods. Of those two, one was only a dozen yards from Arthur, and luck was with him for the man stood with his back to the woods behind him.

But how to close that final distance without alerting him? Arthur was catlike in his movements, but he couldn’t count on perfect silence. A single broken twig could spell disaster for them both. Then Arthur smiled to himself.

Abruptly, from the creek path, there came a sudden rustle of leaves. The bandits turned towards the sound, taking aim with their crossbows. The apparent leader of the bandits called one of his men to him. He must have ordered the man to investigate, because the bandit disappeared into the woods, moving along the far side of the clearing. Arthur smirked. If he made it so far, he would find nothing but a four-pronged fishing spear angled shallowly into the ground. His lucky charm had worked. 

Arthur wasted no time now. He ran softly behind the nearest bandit. The man seemed to notice him only at the last possible moment, because he gave no cry. He merely turned in Arthur’s direction with his crossbow pointed at his attacker. With his left hand Arthur swung upwards, knocking the crossbow from the bandit’s hands. With the other, he drew the hunting knife neatly across the man’s throat. Arthur was holding the crossbow before the bandit’s body fell, bleeding out among the leaves.

Arthur took careful aim at the bandit on the far side of the clearing. He would not get another chance. Smoothly and without haste he released the bolt. It buried itself in the bandit’s upper torso. The man screamed out in pain. Arthur stooped to take the fallen bandit’s sword from his sheath. Then he swore to himself. 

The bandit chief had followed the impossibly fast chain of events with eagle-like awareness. Now his voice rang out across the clearing, “Come out now, my dear nobleman. You made quick work of my men but you won’t find me so easy to deal with.” Arthur’s vision went red with rage as the huge man stepped to the side of Merlin and raised a knife with a curved blade to Merlin’s throat. “Come out and drop your weapons, or I’ll see your faithful little servant spills every last drop of his blood at my feet.” 

Merlin’s eyes searched out Arthur’s. _No_ , he mouthed. _Please Arthur, no_. But then the blade was pressing up, under his chin and Merlin found he could neither move nor speak.

“Come on now, nobleman. I won’t ask again.” A drop of blood appeared on Merlin’s throat, red against white.

Arthur didn’t hesitate. He walked slowly, deliberately out of the woods and into the clearing. The bandit chief pointed with his knife. Arthur nodded and dropped the sword into the grass. The bandit pointed again and Arthur tossed away the crossbow and spread his arms wide. He continued walking towards them.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, ignoring the bandit altogether, “Are you alright? Did he hurt you?” Arthur’s voice was dark and ominous.

The bandit chief laughed an ugly laugh. “So that’s why the heroics, nobleman? He’s not just your servant, eh? Your bedwarmer, too, I think. You worry too much. If he performs his duty, he’ll be back in your bed within a fortnight.”

Arthur did not stop walking, nor did he seem to hear the bandit’s words. “Merlin,” he asked in a softer voice. “Are you hurt?”

The pressure of the knife grew a little less and Merlin managed to say, “N-not too bad. Morgana could hit harder.” He gave a lopsided grin.

Still walking forward, “Now Merlin, I know you don’t approve of this sort of thing, but I’m going to have to ask you to trust me. You trust me don’t you?”

Merlin’s eyes darted from Arthur’s face to his hands. To his hand. There it was, the tiniest glint at the end of his sleeve: Arthur’s hunting knife. Merlin groaned internally, but he brought his gaze back to Arthur’s face.

“That’s all I’m asking you to do.” Now Arthur was only yards away. “Trust me. Just...trust me.”

Merlin took a deep breath and as he exhaled, looked once more at Arthur...and then slowly and deliberately closed his eyes.

“That’s enough! No closer,” the bandit growled. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill--”

Merlin felt the air move around him. Time seemed to slow as something flew past his face. And then the bandit chief let out a mighty howl of pain. Merlin opened his eyes to see the giant beside him clutching at his eye, from which Arthur’s hunting knife protruded. The injured man clawed at the weapon, cursing and bellowing threats.

Arthur took his moment. Stepping in towards the chief, he drew the man’s sword from its sheath and struck. This was not Arthur’s training, graceful and smooth. This was a savagery Merlin had never seen before. Arthur hacked at the bandit. Even as the man began to fall, Arthur hewed at his neck until the corpse lay at Merlin’s feet and the head rolled a short distance away. The horses neighed and stomped in terror.

“Arthur! Arthur. It’s alright.” Merlin’s voice began to cut through the fog in Arthur’s mind. “I’m alright.” Suddenly exhausted, Arthur dropped to his knees before Merlin and leaned heavily against his legs. Merlin stretched his long fingers to stroke the top of his blonde head. “It’s alright now. I’m alright.”

❧

After a moment, Arthur remembered himself and stood up quickly. Merlin sagged against his bonds in relief. Retrieving his knife, Arthur made quick work of the ropes that bound Merlin to the tree. Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur’s hands caught his face and drew him into a long, open-mouthed kiss. Hearts still pounding, they breathed into one another. When at last Arthur pulled back, he whispered, “I thought I’d lost you.” 

Merlin grinned, face still cupped in Arthur’s rough hands. “I’m not that easy to get rid of.” His face hurt from smiling and his eyes crinkled with joy. 

For a moment, Merlin was simply lost in the beauty of Arthur’s hair, haloed by the setting sun. Then he sensed, more than saw, movement behind the prince. The fourth bandit had circled back to the camp. While they had embraced, the bandit must have crept out of the bushes on the far side of the camp. Merlin was sure he could hear the creak of the crossbow bolt being drawn back. The same golden light that caught on Arthur’s hair gilded the sharp metal tip of the bolt. It would strike Arthur between the shoulderblades. At this distance, it could not miss. There was no time. No time, and no choice.

Merlin’s eyes glowed with elemental power. He spoke no words. With one arm he pushed Arthur behind him. With the other he pointed at the would-be assassin. The bolt released. Merlin reached inside and called on his magic. 

Time slowed. Arthur’s head turned and his eyes widened. The rustling of leaves on the trees ceased. Merlin’s heart forgot to beat. Still the bolt approached, though now it moved almost as through water. Graceful but full of deadly purpose, Merlin’s fingers wove the very air around him. 

The bolt slowed still more. Arthur’s gaze followed it now. It paused in flight. And then as Merlin’s hand completed the sigil, the bolt turned, end over end. And now the bandit’s eyes were wide with disbelief.

Merlin exhaled. The bolt flew once again, as it had at the moment of release, back towards the bandit. Noiselessly it pierced his throat and continued its motion, burying its point deep in the tree behind him. Gouts of blood already covered the chest of its victim. The man’s eyes were still open, fixed on Merlin, while his mouth worked soundlessly. And then he slumped, still pinned against the tree.

Arthur was safe. Merlin’s heart beat again. He turned to smile at his prince, and then faltered as he read horror in Arthur’s face. Arthur stumbled backwards, away from him, shaking his head. 

_Oh gods, no_. The way Arthur looked at him pierced Merlin’s soul. There was no recognition in those blue eyes. No warmth, no welcome. “Arthur, please, let me explain,” Merlin began, stepping towards the prince who was already turning away from him as though to run. 

For a moment, it seemed that Arthur stopped at his words. In the next, Merlin realized what he should have assumed: honed by years of training, Arthur’s instincts had guided him intuitively towards the nearest felled bandit. In one easy motion he knelt, took up the man’s sword, and centered it on Merlin’s heart. 

Merlin retreated slowly, step by step, from the deadly point, until he stood once again with his back to the tree to which he had been bound. 

Arthur’s eyes were bright but dangerous. Something like madness sparked in them. Something that reminded Merlin of Uther. Never lowering the point of his blade, Arthur intoned a single word: “Sorcerer.” 

Against his will, Merlin’s eyes flooded with tears which overflowed in hot trails down his cheeks. He shook his head slowly, unable to speak.

“How long?” Arthur’s voice was low and strained and did not shake.

Merlin opened his mouth but no words came out. 

“How long,” Arthur repeated through gritted teeth, “Have I kept a sorcerer in my service in the very heart of Camelot?” 

Merlin looked at Arthur through the tears. A stranger looked back at him. And so he knelt. There, in the forest, surrounded by corpses, he dropped to his knees while his hands dangled helplessly by his sides. He lowered his head in a gesture of submission, baring the back of his neck, as though on the executioner’s block already.

Arthur repositioned the point of his blade and pressed it to Merlin’s chest, which heaved with silent sobs. “You will answer me. _Sorcerer_. How long have you practiced magic?”

Merlin hated himself for snivelling like this. For cringing away from Arthur’s anger. For ever imagining any other outcome than this one. He forced himself to speak. 

“I...I didn’t.” Merlin could feel Arthur’s rage build with his incredulity. “I was born this way. I was born with magic.” Slowly he raised his head to meet the beloved eyes, blue eyes that now held only hate. This time his voice didn’t waver. “And I use it for _you_ , Arthur. Only for you.” The sword point had silently cut through thin layers of fabric and now the naked blade pressed itself against flesh. A fleeting thought passed through his mind. Merlin imagined falling forward, taking hold of the hilt, and ending this interminable, hopeless moment. But he had put himself at Arthur’s mercy, and such an act would be cowardice. Merlin still clung to the shred of hope that he might show Arthur the courage and loyalty that the prince didn’t believe those with magic possessed. That he might at least make a brave show of it, here at the end.

Arthur did not speak. He did not lower the blade, nor did he plunge it into Merlin’s heart. At last Merlin found his voice again, though it was softer, now.

“Please. Let it be you. Not the pyre. Please...don’t let me burn.” Merlin had no more tears to shed and no more words to say. He lowered his head again, and waited.

The pressure and sting over his sternum lessened as Arthur withdrew the sword point. Merlin kept his eyes trained on Arthur’s boots, but in his peripheral vision he could see that the prince was shaking. And then, with a guttural scream, Arthur turned and flung the sword away, shoulders heaving. He turned back to Merlin and uttered a single word: “Go.”

And then he turned and walked away. Away from Merlin and their camp, empty-handed, Arthur simply walked into the woods without a word. Merlin lifted his head to watch him go. Within moments he was lost in the trees. 

The day was just beginning to diminish into twilight. The leaves rustled as a chill wind blew through the ravaged camp. The horses nickered nervously.

Merlin was alone. 

❧

Arthur stomped forward blindly through the woods. Branches whipped at his exposed face, but he made no attempt to push them aside or slow down. He hardly flinched when brambles caught at his clothes and person. He felt a sting across his cheek and another against the back of his hand, and he welcomed the throb of pain that accompanied them. It sharpened his mind. And Arthur needed to be sharp.

Merlin was a sorcerer. Merlin had magic. Merlin had been lying to him since the beginning. And what could Arthur make of that? Merlin had been more than his manservant, even before this morning. He was Arthur’s first and only friend. Had Merlin orchestrated events to get close to him, or had he merely taken advantage of circumstances? 

What did he want? 

In the gathering gloom, Arthur’s foot caught a tree root and he stumbled to his knees. It wasn’t just the darkening woods, he realized. His eyes swam with tears, prolific and unwanted. Arthur swore. 

What a fool. He could hardly summon the energy to hate Merlin more than he hated himself in this moment. What an idiot he’d been, to place so much faith in a magic-user, to trust that open smile and not sense the corrupted heart beneath. Gods, as if his father hadn’t spent a lifetime schooling him against the deception practiced by sorcerers. And he had given his faith to one.

His heart.

Far from the campsite, far from any human presence, Arthur allowed himself to do what he hated himself for doing. He wept. Hot, bitter tears wrung themselves again and again from his heart as, unbidden, memories of Merlin came to the surface. Merlin, drinking from the poisoned chalice. Merlin, following Arthur into Gedref’s trap. Merlin, standing tall over the water with that damned fishing spear in his hand. Merlin, binding Arthur’s wounds, cooling his fevers, massaging his strained muscles. Merlin in the grey morning sunlight as he and Arthur...oh gods, no. That was too new, too fresh, too painful to think about. What a fool, what a fool, what a damned fool.

Arthur dropped his head and wrapped his arms around himself. He felt like he was trying to hold his chest together, that if he couldn’t control this feeling, his ribs would crack and his heart would burst. He rocked, struggling to hold himself still until finally a howl of pure misery tore loose from his throat. _Merlin...why?_

Arthur swallowed hard. He had to return to the campsite. The horses...no, just one horse. Merlin would have taken Llamrei by now. Somehow, as upended as his world was, Arthur felt certain that Merlin would take care of his beloved mare. He couldn’t be mistaken about everything, could he? The Merlin who wept over a unicorn, who deliberately spoiled the royal hunts, who fed kitchen scraps to the runt of the litter. How could that be a lie? No, Merlin would never let harm come to Llamrei. Arthur clutched at this tiny certainty that there was still something real about his imagined friend, something worth loving about the man he… 

No. No more of that. Arthur would return to camp. The fire would be ash. Hengroen would stamp his hooves, ears forward, unsettled. One pack would be gone, and one would remain. A cold night lay ahead of him, and in the morning, a lonely journey home. Home. Where Merlin would never be again. 

To imagine the future beyond that journey was unbearable. Arthur stood unsteadily, turned, and began his trek back by the last of the grey daylight.

❧

By the time the clearing came into view, Arthur was prepared. He’d spent the long walk building up a shield against the emotions he knew would be stirred up by returning to their, no, _the_ campsite, alone. His tears had been shed, his mind was clear, and his heart was walled within a great fortress, impenetrable even to himself.

The smell hit him first. Smoke, not acrid and stale, but warm and carrying aloft little sparks. And on the evening breeze the scent of food, something meaty, steamy and spiced. 

And there he was. Arthur paused to watch him for a moment.

Merlin sat on a log staring into the fire, his long legs folded like a grasshopper’s. He didn’t seem to have heard Arthur’s approach, nor did he seem sensible of any of his surroundings. The horses whinneyed a welcome, yet Merlin continued to stare straight ahead. The stewpot was suspended above the low fire and steam curled from its lid. Merlin held a long wooden spoon and beside him sat two empty bowls.

He looked terrible. Even in the fading twilight, Arthur could see how puffy his eyes were, and the soft glow of the embers showed innumerable tear tracks. And just like that, Arthur’s fortress crumbled. The sight could not abate Arthur’s anger, his confusion, the ache of betrayal that throbbed beneath his chest. But neither could he continue to pretend that Merlin was the calculating, manipulative sorcerer his father’s words warned him against. This was Merlin, gods help him, _his_ Merlin. Without the sense to flee, unwilling or unable to leave Arthur’s side. 

A twig snapped under Arthur’s boot and Merlin startled, eyes wide as they darted about and came to rest on Arthur’s form emerging from the woods. Merlin leapt to his feet still holding the spoon and roughly wiping his eyes and nose with the other hand. His lips parted but he said nothing.

“What are you doing here, Merlin?” Arthur could hear the coldness in his own voice, but couldn’t stop himself. 

Merlin’s hands twitched at his sides and he stammered, “S-soup. I made soup.”

“I ordered you to _go_ , Merlin.”

“I--” Merlin began, and then stopped. He looked into Arthur’s eyes imploringly, but only met with a shuttered expression. He dropped his gaze and began again, his voice almost inaudibly soft. “I won’t leave you. I’m meant to be at your side. Do what you have to do. I’m not running away.”

Arthur approached and Merlin seemed to shrink in on himself. Arthur felt torn, impossibly conflicted. He could not bring himself to disbelieve Merlin’s loyalty, and yet the relentless reminders of his lies were in every look, gesture, and act. Bitterly, desperately, Arthur heard himself say, “Show me.”

Merlin shook his head. “You don’t mean that.”

“Show me. That’s an order. For gods’ sakes, this _once_ , would you follow a damned order, Merlin? You’ve been lying to me every minute of every day for months now. You’re a sorcerer. Admit it. Show me.”

Merlin flinched at his tone. He brought his hands up slowly, and in the firelight Arthur could see how they shook. _“Forbearnan. Drakon._ ” 

And from his trembling palms sprang a tiny flame which exploded into a shower of sparks. Before Arthur’s eyes, the sparks coalesced into a shape. A dragon. A dragon identical to the Pendragon crest. Arthur’s dragon. Merlin whispered to it and the creature of living fire opened its wings and flew from Merlin’s hands in a slow, gentle arc towards Arthur, where it hovered at eye level.

Arthur swallowed hard. His rage contended with his wonder. Somehow he had never imagined magic producing a thing of beauty, let alone a symbol of loyalty and devotion. 

“Enough.” The word was hard and bitten off. The sparks extinguished at once, blowing away like ash into emptiness. “If you don’t have the sense to leave by morning, then you ride back with me. I will keep this...secret. For now. But if you so much as breathe the word ‘magic’ once we return to Camelot, that protection is gone.”

Merlin nodded vigorously, stepping forward and closing the distance between them. His nearness overwhelmed Arthur and he found himself wanting to back away, suddenly seized with emotions he didn’t want to feel or name.

“I promise. Not a word. Thank you. I never wanted to lie to you, Arthur--”

Arthur’s fist connected with Merlin’s cheek, and the boy dropped like a stone to the forest floor. Arthur felt the pain in his knuckles before he realized what he’d done. Merlin lay sprawled on his back in the dirt, shock on his face and tears in his eyes.

“No,” Arthur heard himself say in a hollow voice. “Not that. You don’t call me that. Not ever again.”

Merlin nodded and made no move to rise. 

“I’m going to water the horses.” The prince turned his back, unable to bear the sight of Merlin’s heartbroken expression even a moment more.

Merlin watched him guide the animals down to the creek, until they disappeared into darkness. Then he curled in on himself and bit down on his fist to stifle a sob.

When they returned, his eyes were dry and he handed Arthur a bowl. When their hands brushed, he twitched and nearly spilled the soup. Arthur steadied the bowl with his other hand and accepted it with a muttered, “Thank you.”

That night they removed to opposite sides of the fire, Merlin wrapped tightly in his blankets, Arthur sitting up against a tree. The wind picked up and the air was bitterly cold. That night there were no nightmares, for Arthur never closed his eyes. And from the muffled and miserable sounds that emerged from the blankets now and again, neither, it seemed, did Merlin. The forest’s stillness was only broken by the lonely call of an owl and the rustling of leaves. 

And so the long hours of darkness passed, bringing ever closer a bleak and uncertain dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to my muse Merlioske for story saving and my bro Ronin for edits.


	5. The Lost Nights - Cold Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin and Arthur return to Camelot with their secret griefs and burdens. Nothing will ever be the same again, so how do they move on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of several mini chapters collectively titled "The Lost Nights."

The return to Camelot could not have been less like the day they set out. A cold and miserable night for both prince and servant turned into the most beautiful early spring day. The sun danced in the horses’ coats. It warmed and invited the removal of layers, chasing away the stiffness of the wakeful night. Every few minutes, Arthur would feel the urge to turn in his saddle and direct a sardonic comment at Merlin, a little bait for his sharp and impudent tongue. And then a wave of weary grief would come crashing down on his head, and Arthur felt himself slip under the current of despair. The looks he chanced at Merlin when they stopped for water or to rest the horses made Arthur sick to his stomach.

Merlin dragged himself through the motions of packing camp and preparing for the journey. He moved listlessly, sometimes pausing and looking around himself as if he didn’t know how he came to be there or what he was supposed to be doing. Mostly the automaticity of the tasks guided his hands and his thoughts could wander freely. They circled him like lazy fish, returning again and again to the same conclusions.

Arthur did not accept him. Did not understand. Could not forgive. In every imagined conversation, Merlin found the words to turn the prince’s heart and make him see: Merlin never wanted to hide from him, lie to him. Why would someone choose to be hated and feared like this? _I was born with it_ , Merlin repeated with every iteration of their argument, _I was born with it. Don’t you see, you can’t help how you were born?_ But then, Arthur did not forgive himself for the circumstances of his own birth. Why should he extend that grace to Merlin?

As if to compound his miserable thoughts, Merlin’s body ached and hurt in so many places he could hardly tell them apart. His abdomen and ribs felt bruised, the cuts and rope burn stung with every drop of sweat, and his face throbbed with pain. He touched his cheek lightly. The sensation shot through to the bone and circled his darkening eyesocket. _You don’t call me that. Not ever again._ He fleetingly imagined taking blow after blow, gratefully, if only Arthur had not revoked that sacred word.

And so they plodded homewards. The birds sang merrily and the breeze ruffled their hair, and every so often they would feel the pleasure of the warm sun and smell the springtime and for some sweet moment, forget the events that had changed their relationship forever.

❧

As they rode through the lower town in the early evening, Merlin found himself trying to hide his face and avert his gaze. The throb around his eye and cheek felt like a visible beacon, a badge of shame that Arthur’s physical distance only compounded.

When they approached the stables, Merlin leaped off Llamrei and reached for Hengroen’s reins. Arthur dismounted stiffly and looked at his gloves as he addressed Merlin in short, clipped speech:

“You’re safe. Gaius is safe, you have my word. But I don’t want to see you unless I send for you. Is that understood?”

Merlin nodded, eyes abruptly stinging again. “Yes...sire. Thank you, sire.”

Arthur looked as though he wanted to say something else, but ultimately remained silent. He turned away sharply, and strode off in the direction of the courtyard.

Merlin saw to it that both horses were cared for properly. He whispered soft words of comfort to Llamrei, who snorted and nuzzled against his head, unappeased. He loaded their bags and sleeping rolls and trucked them to the laundry.

And then Merlin followed the winding servants’ passageways back in the direction of Gaius’ chambers, mind blank of anything but grief and shame.

❧

Gaius startled as the door was flung open and Merlin entered, dropped his bags, crossed the room without a greeting, and flung himself across his narrow cot.

“Merlin?”

The door to his room slammed shut.

“Merlin!”

Silence.

Gaius sighed. Then he slowly gathered up the dropped bags and shut the front door and finally rapped softly on the entrance to Merlin’s little room. He ignored the muffled answer and pushed the door open. Merlin lay facedown on his cot with the blanket dragged nearly over his head.

“Go ’way,” Merlin groaned.

Gaius descended the short steps and carefully lowered himself to sit at the end of the bed. He rested a hand on one of Merlin’s long legs and patted him absentmindedly.

“Come on, dear boy. Out with it.”

The dam burst. For a time Merlin stayed facedown, burying his sobs in the pillow, throat strained with the effort to stay silent. He dimly registered Gaius’s hand between his shoulderblades, rubbing small comforting circles there. Although he’d been holding back until he reached the privacy of his room, Merlin soon found that he’d cried himself out, too exhausted for further tears. Gaius pressed a handkerchief into his palm and Merlin wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He sat up.

“He knows, Gaius,” Merlin began in a monotone, staring into the middle distance. “We were attacked, and I had to...and he saw…” Merlin found that it was too painful to relate the details. “Gaius, he hates me.”

Gaius put an arm around Merlin’s shoulders and ruffled his hair affectionately. “He doesn’t.”

Merlin sat up and looked Gaius in the face for the first time, in disbelief. “Gaius, you didn’t see him. You didn’t hear him. The way he _looked_ at me.” Merlin shivered at the memory of a blank, cold stare, deadly as the swordpoint against his breast.

“You young people, you always think everything is black and white, love and hate. Hate is not love’s opposite, Merlin.”

Merlin stared, uncomprehending.

“Be logical for a moment, boy. If Arthur did not love you fiercely, there would already be palace guards at my door. If he were truly indifferent, you would not now be safe at home with me. Merlin, I don’t know exactly what happened, but I know how Arthur feels about you. A blind man could see it. Give him time. Anger is only his grief turned outwards. Let him grieve.”

Merlin couldn’t tell if Gaius’s words made sense, or if he was just too tired and wrung out to care. They didn’t dispel the sorrow, but they quieted the storm inside him. Suddenly he was unbearably tired.

Gaius saw Merlin fold in on himself, shoulders slumped forwards, as the fight went out of him. “That’s it. That’s enough for now. You need to rest. I’ll wake you for dinner.”

And then, as tenderly as a mother, Gaius leaned forward and unbuckled Merlin’s boots one after the other, ignoring the twinges in his back as he did so. He gently pushed Merlin to lie down again, pulled the coverlet up to his chin, and brushed the fringe out of his eyes. Then he stood stiffly and turned towards the stairs.

“Gaius,” came a small, weary voice. Gaius paused. “Thank you.”

Gaius smiled a little sadly. “Get some rest, Merlin.”

❧

Arthur did not remember returning to his rooms or whether he spoke to anyone, nor did he recall turning down one wrong corridor after another. His head was a fog and he was far too tired to fight it. Eventually he found himself in his bedchamber, and stood in the middle of the room, casting his eyes about as though he might find some explanation here. His gaze fell on the antechamber entrance. Feeling like an idiot, Arthur walked slowly towards the little room. No candles were lit, but there was enough daylight left to make out a servant’s bed. Arthur staggered towards it and stretched out across the rumpled bedsheets. _Messy_ , Arthur thought. Messy, the way Merlin was with his own things, but never with Arthur’s. Arthur bunched the heavy quilt in his fists and buried his face in them before shame could stop him. He breathed it and, no, it wasn’t quite him. But layered beneath the lavender washing soap, Arthur imagined he could still detect the scent of Merlin’s skin.

Four nights ago, Merlin tried to rescue Arthur from a nightmare--and received a knife at his throat for his pains. Four nights ago, Arthur could still pretend that his feelings for Merlin were simply appreciation for a loyal servant, or even fondness for a friend. Four nights ago, Merlin had prattled away and rubbed Arthur’s sore muscles, and never once mentioned the way Arthur leaned into his touch. Arthur’s eyes stung with tears. He brushed them away roughly with his forearm and stood up, suddenly ashamed.

Four nights ago, Merlin still had the wool pulled over Arthur’s eyes. Now he could see clearly. How much had been deception? When Merlin massaged Arthur’s shoulders for the first time, was he already plotting a way into Arthur’s heart? Was some part of the act sincere? It was just as Arthur said, people will do anything to get close to power. Arthur had been so lonely, he realized now, and Merlin had exploited that loneliness. For what purpose? Arthur couldn’t imagine. Even now, he couldn’t see Merlin as cruel or calculating. But neither could he be trusted. Arthur had been a fool to forget that a prince must be lonely. A prince may have loyal servants, but not friends. And it was almost unfair to expect anyone to ingratiate themselves with the crown prince of Camelot, without an agenda of their own.

Arthur’s heart hardened. It was just a lesson, he told himself, and one that he needed to remember. Now he could be strong again. Strong, and independent, and alone. Arthur made his way back to his chair in front of the fireplace. As his return had been unexpected, the hearth was cold, the washtub rolled away for storage, and no dinner would be coming from the kitchens. Tonight Merlin would not bring up a tray and light the fires and heat the water. ( _Not ever again_ , Arthur reminded himself savagely. He had to wrap himself around that piercing truth. He could not bear the idea of letting Merlin close to him again, even if he one day found a way to forgive him.) Yet Arthur felt strangely reluctant to send for another servant. Instead, he dug into his travel bag and searched around for something to eat. Almost at once he found a tinderbox, some cheese, and an apple. Arthur groaned. The idiot had taken Arthur’s pack by mistake, and this was Merlin’s. But then his fingers brushed against a familiar shape. Arthur pulled out the wineskin and looked at it with new appreciation.

Several minutes later, Arthur sat in his chair, staring into the flames, sipping mulled wine. The first sip threatened to wash away his composure. It brought back that first taste of Merlin’s mouth, those first hungry kisses. But then Arthur threw his head back and drank as if he’d been dying of thirst, and soon the wine wrapped itself around his memories, smothering them in warm, dark oblivion.

Arthur drank until the wineskin was empty and watched the fire until it burned to ash. Then he staggered to his feet. He looked back and forth between his opulent bed and the dark doorway to the antechamber. Too drunk to feel ashamed, Arthur let his feet carry him back inside the cold, small room, now lit only by moonlight. He flopped down on top of the sheets, still fully dressed, his head spinning from the wine, and fell instantly asleep. No nightmare woke him, and if he dreamed of Merlin, only the salt on his pillow bore witness.

The moon stretched fingers of pale silver across Arthur’s fists, still loosely clenched in sleep. It splashed across Merlin’s mussed hair and dirty face. It traveled its own course through the night, gentling the sharp edges of memory, soothing troubled hearts, until it faded away with the dawn.

And so passed the first of many lost nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Merlioske for guidance and beta reading. <3


	6. The Lost Nights - A Fight Without A Victor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin and Arthur struggle separately to come to terms with their losses.

_Rap, rap, rap!_

Arthur startled awake, pushed himself halfway up, discovered that he was in terrific pain, and slumped back into the rumpled bedclothes instead.

_Rap, rap, rap-rap!_

The insistent staccato seemed to be coming from inside Arthur’s aching skull. This time he made no move to rise, but managed to open his bleary eyes for a few moments longer. Warm, yellow sunlight stretched from the windows across the small room. _Could it be midday already?_ He groaned and waited for the awful knocking to go away.

_Rap-rap, rap-rap, rap-rap!_

Pain radiated from a tight band around his head to encircle each eyesocket, throbbing in time with the noise. This time Arthur woke fully to find himself still dressed in yesterday’s travel clothes, sprawled across Merlin’s--no, _the servant’s_ cot in the antechamber, with a foul taste in his mouth and the sudden realization that he did not want to be discovered in his current condition, by anyone. He shoved himself upright and staggered into his bedchamber, leaned over the washbasin, and combed his fingers through his hair ineffectually. 

“Come,” he heard himself say in a hoarse voice. The door swept open, just ahead of his command, to admit a willowy figure in lavender. Guinevere stood in the doorway, a tray in her arms laden with food and what Arthur feared was, more than likely, a pitcher of watered wine. 

“Good afternoon, my lord!” Gwen’s voice rang out like a bell. The sound pierced the fog of Arthur’s mind with ruthless cheeriness. Arthur straightened up and attempted to look princely. The effect was rather spoiled by tufts of blonde hair sticking up on the side he’d slept on and the generally disastrous state of his clothing.

“I thought you might be in need of service,” she continued merrily, “since I visited Gaius this morning and found your manservant still in his bed.” 

Arthur stiffened at that. Something in her tone was off. In fact, he was beginning to get an uneasy feeling about his high-spirited visitor.

“That’s,” Arthur cleared his throat and tried again, “That’s very kind of you Guinevere but I’m really fine. Now if that’s all--”

_Clang!_

Gwen set the tray down heavily on his desk and continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “In fact, your highness, he looked absolutely miserable. I thought he was ill. And then Merlin said the strangest thing!”

_Crash!_

Gwen all but slammed the wine pitcher down beside the tray. “He told me--”

_Ding!_

“--that he’d been--”

_Thunk!_

“-- _dismissed from your service._ ” 

Arthur groaned again. Guinevere could be the brightest spot of sunshine in Camelot, but she was also Merlin’s friend and fiercely protective, as he now remembered to his chagrin. Arthur sighed. He sensed through the pulsing pain in his temples that he deserved this somehow, even if Merlin had been undeniably at fault. 

At least Gwen seemed to have run out of dishes. He risked a glance and found her shifting her weight from one foot to the other, twisting her apron between white knuckles and looking as if she wanted to speak. At last she opened her mouth. 

“Sire, I know I’m _only a servant_ , but...may I speak freely?”

Arthur pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, feeling as though he were physically holding them in their sockets. He dropped his hands and nodded. “Go ahead, Gwen. I didn’t realize you were holding back.” He did little to disguise the bitterness in his tone. This was _Merlin’s_ fault, and yet Arthur couldn’t defend himself and still keep Merlin’s secret. It really wasn’t fair.

“Sire.” Gwen dropped a quick curtsy and looked at the ground as she continued. “A prince may command men, but even the greatest king cannot command the loyalty of a true heart. And a _wise_ king would not dismiss such a gift.” She hesitated and bit her lip. She looked smaller and more girlish just then, as if some of her courage had abandoned her, along with her anger. Now her eyes were sorrowful as she looked up to meet his. “My lord,” Gwen continued softly, “Merlin is devoted to you. He cares more for you than anyone or anything. Does he not deserve better, from you of all people?” she pleaded, and then seemed to remember herself. “My lord.” She curtseyed again and fell silent. 

Arthur waved vaguely to dismiss her. 

“Actually, there was one more thing.” Gwen’s voice was strangely airy as she turned to go. “Someone _struck_ him, your highness. Bandits, I think Merlin said?”

Arthur tried and failed to keep his features blank.

Gwen’s eyes narrowed. “I thought so.” And she swept out of the room, skirt swirling, and slammed the heavy door behind her.

At the sound, a fresh wave of pain washed over him. Arthur dropped into the nearest chair and slumped forward, head buried in his folded arms. Merlin… _loyal_ . Merlin, whose lies were so many and so tangled that Arthur could not make out the man underneath them. It was _Merlin’s_ fault that everything was ruined. That much was clear. 

Wasn’t it? Then why did Gwen’s visit reawaken the terrible ache in his chest? Suddenly the scent of the food assailed his nostrils. Arthur found himself running to the fireplace to retch and heave, overcome by a nausea that had little to do with the wine. 

❧

Merlin sat at one of the worktables. Shoulders slumped, his hands held a mug of tea, and he breathed in the soothing steam curls. He sipped, then made a face. “What’s in this?”

“Chamomilia,” Gaius answered, easing into the seat opposite, and then murmured into his own mug, “And something a bit stronger.”

Merlin raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“It’s _medicinal_ , Merlin.”

“Medicinal.”

“You’re hurt. You need rest and healing. And forgive me, Merlin, but as you won’t be required to work today, I think it would be best to take this opportunity to recover. After all, who knows what the next few days may hold?”

Merlin groaned. “At best? Nothing.” Then softly, “He doesn’t want me, Gaius.” As he drank more of the strong beverage in his hands, Merlin found his anger. “I saved his _life_ . I’ve saved his royal arse more times than I can _count_ , Gaius! And for what? A blade to my throat, three times in as many days.” Merlin’s voice dropped away. “And he doesn’t want me anymore, because I have magic. I actually…” His voice caught and emerged as a whisper. “I actually thought he might accept me. It was so different...before.”

Gaius tented his fingers and looked Merlin over. The night before, Merlin had fallen asleep in his clothes, refusing to wake up for dinner or to let Gaius treat his bruised eye. Gaius had returned in the morning to find Merlin awake and staring at the ceiling. Had Gwen not dropped by for a cough remedy, Gaius doubted Merlin would have gotten out of bed at all. During her visit, he was tight-lipped and avoided her eyes, and he was visibly relieved when she left. 

Since then, Merlin had allowed Gaius to press a mug of “tea” into his hands. Some of it actually _was_ chamomile, but the bulk was a concoction of his own invention: spirits of elder-flower, spiced mead, and a very strong gariofilatum of cloves. Only, as he watched Merlin begin to warm to his anger, it occured to Gaius that he might have misjudged the potency of his remedy. Merlin was beginning to slur.

“...an’ I really thought he cared about me, Gaius. He did! He did. He did...and now he doesn’t. He doesn’t want me…” Merlin trailed off again, mumbling into the dregs of his drink. “Y’know, this stuff isn’t completely foul,” he mused. He pushed his empty mug into Gaius’s hands and looked up hopefully. Gaius took the mug, patted his hands, and made a show of refilling it. This time it was only chamomile and cloves. He hid his smile as he watched Merlin sip, look puzzled, but continue doggedly until the second cup was empty as well. Now Merlin’s head was almost cradled in his arms on the worktable. 

“Come on, my boy. Back to bed with you.”

Merlin allowed himself to be led back to his room. He accepted a handful of sleep clothes from Gaius, and docilely tugged his shirt over his head to change into them. Gaius gasped then, and Merlin looked at him, puzzled. Following his guardian’s gaze he looked down at his abused chest and abdomen as if seeing them for the first time. 

“Oh. Yeah.” 

Merlin looked ashamed, so Gaius stowed his reaction and helped the young man into his nightclothes and back under the covers.

“‘M sorry, Gaius.”

Gaius shook his head kindly and pushed Merlin back onto his pillow. “Rest.” Then the old man drew the shutters and left Merlin, already snoring, in the darkened room.

It was only when Gaius stood in his chambers again that he allowed the tears to fall. His heart ached for two ridiculous boys, for their pains, and for all the cruelty in the world from which he could not protect them. He dried his eyes and began to make a salve.

❧

Arthur Pendragon was drunk for the second time in as many days.

In fact, he hadn’t been entirely sober all day. When Gwen left him to his splitting head and roiling stomach, he hadn’t been able to touch the food, or even look at the watered wine she brought. Gradually, however, he realized that he hadn’t eaten since the previous morning and that the day was waiting for him whether or not he was ready to meet it. True, he was still expected to be absent on his hunting trip, but sooner or later he would have to announce his return to his father, and that added an element of unpredictability Arthur wasn’t ready to face on an empty stomach.

And so Arthur poured himself a cup of wine and forced himself to eat a little bread. Gradually he found that he was able to keep it down and was, in fact, famished. He refilled his glass enough times that he lost count. Even watered, the wine seemed to counteract his miserable physical and mental state enough that the prospect of seeing his father became tolerable. 

But would the king even want to see him? And what kind of reception might he expect? Uther’s temper had already been unpredictable when Arthur took his leave. The prince sighed to himself. He had been so deliberate, had planned to be far from the Citadel when this time of year arrived. He shook his head. This line of thought always brought on a bleak mood. And somehow the wine was gone already. He would have to face the day, and that meant ringing for a servant. He needed a bath, for a start.

And there it was again, the ache he’d been ignoring. Somehow Merlin always got the bath temperature right. And his hands...scrubbing Arthur’s back, massaging his sore muscles, washing his hair and rubbing his scalp so tenderly it made Arthur wonder if this was what it was like to know a mother’s touch. At first, Arthur had refused Merlin’s help, but it was just one more battle against his manservant’s stubborn and determined caretaking that Arthur had been happy to lose.

Arthur pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and found himself fighting back tears. He breathed deeply, shoulders heaving with the effort to regain control. He failed. With a roar, Arthur grabbed a nearby chair and hurled it across the room. He punched the stone wall once and the pain momentarily cleared his mind, so he did it again. And again. And again, until his fists were scraped and bloody. He looked at them stupidly and then found himself half-laughing, half-crying. Here he was, the great Arthur Pendragon, Camelot's crown prince, her pride and hope for the future...and he was acting like a fool, a mad prince besotted with his own damned servant! 

He felt like an idiot. He _was_ an idiot, keeping the deadly secret of the man who had humiliated and betrayed him. And yet Arthur would have given anything to rewrite the truth. Merlin made him feel loved, cared for, safe as no one ever had. It wasn’t just the loss of a friend. It was the shame of having let himself want what he _knew_ was forbidden. A prince could have a servant, but not love one. 

The secret of Merlin’s magic was almost immaterial. It only served to reveal the man’s character. He was an inveterate liar, at the very least. But what really gnawed at Arthur’s heart was not knowing what, if anything, he could still believe in. When Merlin touched him, was that a lie? When Merlin spoke of his destiny with unshakable faith, was it just a tactic? Was a sorcerer, as his father insisted, entirely corrupted by magic? No, gold was not the color that ensorcelled Arthur. It was those pale blue eyes shining with love that cast the enchantment over his heart...or was that, too, a lie?

Arthur rang for a servant. He looked in the mirror and what he saw instantly sobered him. His hair was mussed and wild, his eyes red-rimmed, and his knuckles were stained with drying blood. Frowning at his reflection, Arthur slapped himself, hard. He might be a fool for love, but he didn’t have to act the part. Or look it. He made a mental note to request a shave.

And maybe another jug of wine.

❧

Merlin rolled the stoppered glass container between his hands, watching the late afternoon sunlight catch in its thick amber base. Despite drowsiness brought on by Gaius’s strong medicinal “tea”, Merlin refused to stay in bed. Instead he perched on a high stool in front of a cabinet of alchemical components with fading labels, ostensibly sorting and rewriting them. He knew Gaius had only given him work to keep him out of the way. 

For Merlin, the hours crawled, empty of everything but emptiness itself. His thoughts were dulled by drugs that numbed the pain in his body, but left his heartache untouched. He stared stupidly at the amber jar. _What do I do now?_ The thought tumbled around his empty head for the hundredth time. _Stay?_ Stay and wonder every day if Arthur would change his mind and send him to the block or the pyre? _Run?_ Put as much distance between himself and Camelot as possible and start a new life? _What would that even mean?_ For the hundredth time, he found himself caught on one impossible thought: Stay or go, Arthur was lost to him. Their destiny. The dream of a united Albion, a Camelot where magic flourished, all lost. Maybe it had never been more than that. Not a prophecy. Just a dream. And now, not even that.

A knock at the door startled Merlin and the bottle fell from his hands. Glass shards and white powder fanned out along the stone floor at his feet. Guiltily, Merlin looked up to see Gaius fold his arms and sigh deeply. 

“Fortunately for us both, Merlin, that saltpetre compound only combusts in the presence of fire. Now do clean it up before you manage to knock over a candle and bring the roof down on us.” 

Merlin nodded and leapt to his feet as Gaius met his patient at the door. Sweeping up the mess, Merlin’s hands shook. This was perhaps the dozenth time an unexpected visitor had sent him scrambling in fear. Despite Arthur’s promise, Merlin could not rid himself of the certainty that the next knock would be palace guards, come to escort him to the dungeon. Gaius wanted him back in his bed, had said so repeatedly, but Merlin had his own reasons to stay awake. 

His childhood nightmares had returned in full force. 

Each time his heavy eyelids closed, his mind played out the same scenes again and again. The weight of manacles on his wrists. A flash of light on the executioner’s blade. His head forced down on the stained block. Or if not, heavy ropes around his chest, faggots at his feet, surrounded by a mob of accusing stares. Sometimes he recognized the great square of Camelot. Other times he found himself in Ealdor watching his mother’s anguished face, trapped in dreams he thought he’d left behind in childhood. And then there was the forest floor beneath his knees, a blade pressed over his heart, his eyes downcast to avoid...

Well, that was the worst part, really. In every version of his nightmare, there was one constant: Arthur. Arthur’s hands, black-gloved, wielding the axe. Arthur’s hands, white-knuckled with fury, lighting the pyre. Arthur’s hands, stained red with Merlin’s blood. And in his face, in his eyes, no trace of mercy. Only a cold stare, as Merlin pleaded and the flames rose higher. A cold stare and the single whispered word, dripping with contempt: “ _Sorcerer_ ”. 

And so Merlin could not even seek out the comfort of sleep. He was perfectly useless out here in Gaius’s work chambers, but at least he was safe from his dreams. 

When Gaius’s patient left, the old man turned back to Merlin with a mixture of sympathy and frustration. “Merlin. Arthur gave you his promise. Whatever his shortcomings, he is a man of his word. And even if he is angry, Arthur has far more to concern himself with than turning you in.”

Merlin scoffed. “Gaius, he was meant to be on a hunting trip. For a _fortnight_. He’s hardly too busy to reconsider my...situation.”

Gaius arched an eyebrow and looked over the top of his spectacles at Merlin, as if considering something carefully. Finally he spoke. “Merlin, do you know why Arthur planned a hunting trip?”

Merlin shrugged. “Um...to hunt? Kill something innocent? Take a little time off from being a spoiled, rich prat of a prince?”

Gaius sighed and gestured to a worktable. “Sit down.” 

Merlin looked skeptical, but complied. Gaius lowered himself onto the bench opposite, folded his arms in front of him, then asked, “What do you know about the circumstances of Arthur’s birth?”

Merlin tried to keep his face impassive, but the question brought it all back: the spiced wine, the flickering firelight, soothing Arthur’s nightmares… He shook his head to clear it. “Arth--he told me. A little. His mother died in childbirth.”

Gaius nodded. “That’s right. Queen Igraine was a magnificent woman, Merlin. It’s as though I see her again, when Arthur shows his finest qualities: compassion, justice, mercy. And the king...Merlin, you cannot imagine the man Uther was when she lived, or the Camelot they ruled over. That terrible night, the king lost more than a wife. I believe he lost the best part of himself.”

Merlin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The conversation was bringing up unwanted feelings. “What does this have to do with the prat?” he asked, rudely. His display did nothing to deceive Gaius, and the old man continued. 

“When the queen died, Uther was utterly bereft. He did not lay eyes on his newborn son for three days. I hired a wet nurse for the child and cared for him as often as I was able, but in those dark days the king relied heavily on me. Arthur grew up raised more by nannies and tutors than by his father. In time, Uther did develop a fondness for the boy. I believe he also saw much of Igraine in Arthur. You must understand, Merlin, Uther loves his son but his heart is twisted by grief. Whether or not he admits it, Uther blames the boy for his mother’s death.”

Gaius paused to wipe his spectacles on his robes. Merlin had the feeling he was stalling, or perhaps choosing his next words carefully. He did not look up at Merlin as he went on.

“Every year, around the anniversary of Queen Igraine’s death, the king is prone to fits of sorrow and anger. When Arthur was young, I tried to keep him away from his father as much as possible during those times. I meant to spare the boy his father’s temper, but I...was not always successful.” Gaius cleared his throat gruffly. His next words were soft, so soft that Merlin had to lean forward to hear him. “The night Arthur turned fourteen, Uther fell into a black mood. I was not there to intervene, as I should have been.” Gaius ran his hand over his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Uther beat the boy half to death before anyone dared intervene. For a time, I feared he would be permanently lame.”

Merlin stared at the old man and shook his head in disbelief. Somehow, for all he’d seen of Uther’s heavy-handed treatment of Arthur, he’d never imagined that the king would harm his son. And as a child, no less...

“Thank the gods, Sir Leon was there. He was not many years older than Arthur himself, but he probably saved the prince’s life.”

“But--” Merlin interrupted, “the king?”

A sad smile settled on Gaius’s features as he replaced his spectacles and looked back at Merlin. “The king was very drunk that night. I doubt he remembers what he did. The next day we gave out the story that the prince had been injured in a riding accident. If Uther knows otherwise, he has never mentioned it. And I should remind you never to speak of it either, not if you value your head.”

Merlin nodded slowly, letting Gaius’ story settle in. 

“Since then,” Gaius concluded, “Arthur avoids his father at this time of year. Did you not think it strange that the prince’s birthday is not celebrated?”

“I never thought about it like that. I thought maybe it was just another difference between royals and commoners.” It was of a piece, Merlin now realized, with the heavy silence that surrounded Igraine’s death. Even if Uther did not blame his son, how could the kingdom celebrate a day when it gained a prince but lost a queen? No wonder Arthur meant to be far away from Camelot. Instead, because of Merlin’s disastrous revelation, the prince was once again subject to his father’s smouldering resentment. 

In that moment, Merlin found his anger at Arthur extinguished, replaced by pity for a lonely boy growing up in a castle seething with secrets. How could Arthur not be poisoned by his father’s hatred? Suddenly his willingness to keep Merlin’s secret took on a different light. For all that Merlin faulted Arthur, he no longer seemed quite so wantonly cruel. Maybe it was a glimpse of Igraine, he mused, the part of Arthur that was willing to defy his father to protect his manservant. What might Arthur have been if she had lived? If he had grown up in the light of a mother’s love, instead of in the shadow of her death?

Gaius was watching him intently, Merlin realized. At the same moment, Merlin felt himself overcome with a bone-deep weariness. He pushed himself away from the worktable and trudged towards his bedroom. He paused on the stair, and over his shoulder said, “Thank you, Gaius.” Then, gently, “It wasn’t your fault, you know. You’ve always tried to protect him." He paused. "I think I understand now.”

Gaius opened his mouth to speak, but the narrow door was already closed.

The night was long and miserable, punctuated by bad dreams. But this time they were changed. Just as before, Arthur raised the torch to Merlin’s feet. Only this time when their eyes met, Arthur’s were full of sorrow. And as Merlin watched, the fire caught and spread, not to himself but to Arthur. Over and over Merlin woke from his nightmares. And every time the last image in his mind was of Arthur reaching out to him from the flames, burning, burning to ash, his eyes flickering gold at the last. 

❧

Arthur tossed back the last of his ale and gestured for another. 

“Speech! Speech!” his knights roared in unison. The night had turned into an impromptu celebration for the two newest additions to their ranks. Sir Leon, upon learning of Arthur’s return, had been eager to appraise him of the progress of his recent recruits. He was proud of them, Arthur could see, proud of the work he’d put into training them in Arthur’s short absence. And so Arthur allowed himself to be talked into this night of revelry, although his heart wasn’t in it.

Arthur rose, raised his mug of ale high, and surveyed the scene. The Rising Sun tavern was filled from the bar to the door with red-caped knights and eager squires, many of whom were quietly inebriating themselves with stolen sips from the cups they carried. He found, to his surprise, that he could feel a spark of pride and warmth looking out over the sea of joyful faces. Then again, the warmth might have something to do with Sir Leon’s squire refilling his ale as fast as he could drink it.

When Arthur had arrived at The Rising Sun, the celebration was already in full swing. Sir Leon hailed him from across the room and Arthur made his way there, clapping shoulders and gripping forearms as he went. Leon smiled and immediately asked, “Where’s Merlin?” 

Arthur felt his mouth tense as he spoke. “Merlin won’t be coming tonight.”

Leon looked concerned. “Is he ill? You didn’t say, was he injured in the bandit attack?”

Arthur suddenly felt that the room was too hot, the crowd too noisy, his thoughts too jumbled to answer evasively. “Merlin...is no longer in my employ.” Arthur was sure he imagined the momentary lull that followed his words, but not the expression of shock on Leon’s face.

“You’ve sacked... _Merlin_? Whatever for? Sire, it’s none of my business of course but--”

“That’s right,” Arthur snapped. “It isn’t. And I would like to enjoy the rest of this evening without discussing my former manservant.” Arthur cursed himself for letting emotion get the better of him. Leon was his finest knight and Arthur respected the older man profoundly. But Leon also knew him better than most, and Arthur knew he was making a fool of himself.

Leon covered his dismay with a quick bow of his head and gestured to a boy who stood to one side. “Then tonight I’d be honored if you’d let my squire attend your majesty.” Arthur couldn’t miss the shift in formality, but he was grateful for Leon’s discretion. “Shall we toast the new recruits, sire? They’d be honored if you would say a few words.”

And so Arthur found himself dry-mouthed despite his drinking, raising his ale and addressing a crowd suddenly quiet and expectant. 

“The courage of the knights of Camelot is known far and wide. Her defenders are legendary, bold and true-hearted.” There were cheers and sloshed ale as mugs were raised. “Of all the five kingdoms, it is here in Camelot that the finest flower of knighthood blooms.” Arthur beamed, gaining confidence from the uplifted faces that surrounded him. He concluded, “That is why we are gathered tonight. Two great men now join our ranks. Into this sacred brotherhood we welcome...” 

And then Arthur faltered. At the far end of the bar, out of the corner of his eye, he saw _him_ . Lanky in his blue tunic and black breeches, around his neck a splash of bright red. Time ground to a halt as Merlin turned towards Arthur and...no, it wasn’t Merlin at all. Just another young man in a red scarf, a squire. Time sped up again as Arthur remembered himself. He shook his head to clear it, his mind suddenly blank as he surveyed the sea of faces before him. _What were their names, the two new knights?_ He’d tested these men, put their names forward for knighthood, and suddenly he couldn’t remember either one. He plunged ahead, “We welcome these... _brave young men_ , the newest knights of Camelot!” Arthur finished with a roar that the crowd answered. 

The two men were pushed to Arthur’s feet by the crowd, and Arthur helped them stand beside him on the table. He spread his hands wide behind them, and smiled broadly as the cheering and drinks began. He took the opportunity to step down, clapping each knight on the shoulder, and found his way back to Sir Leon, who still applauded his men. Arthur met his eyes briefly and looked away. He might have fooled the crowd, but not Leon, who opened his mouth as if to speak, but checked himself and summoned his squire instead. The boy readily refilled Arthur’s ale, his eyes shining with pride and awe. Arthur forced a smile and tousled the boy’s hair. 

And so the evening passed, growing ever blurrier, as Sir Leon’s eager squire topped off Arthur’s ale after every other sip. But the drink did little to ease Arthur’s heartache. Everywhere he looked, he saw Merlin. Merlin sloshing as much ale as he carried, two mugs in each hand, head tossed back and laughing. Merlin jostling his elbow as he refilled Arthur’s drink. Merlin growing more and more intoxicated, less by the ale than the high spirits around him. Merlin beaming back at Arthur, with nothing to say and nothing that needed saying, easy in each other’s company and in the bond between them. 

Or so Arthur had imagined.

Now the crowd was thinning out, emptying into the street, as men returned to their chambers and homes, the lucky ones to the embrace of family or lovers. Arthur had no desire to return to his chambers. He still had not engaged a manservant. His rooms would be cold and empty.

“Sire?” Leon’s concerned voice broke through his thoughts. “Will you return with us?”

Arthur stood unsteadily and placed a hand on Leon’s broad chest to support himself. The floor beneath Arthur’s feet felt like the deck of a ship. “‘M fine, Leon. You go back. I’ll be there,” Arthur belched suddenly and he cleared his throat. “Be there shortly.” 

Leon looked around. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d seen Arthur this drunk. Normally he would rely on Merlin to help the prince stagger back to his rooms, see him dressed for bed, care for him in the night if he was ill. “Perhaps Thomas could stay with you, my lord?” He gestured to his squire, who nodded vigorously, his eyes wide with hero worship.

Reaching up to the taller man, Arthur clapped his hand to Leon’s shoulder. “I told you,” he repeated, and there was a hint of belligerence in his voice, “I’m alright. I just need to...take the night air. Go on, now, before I make that an order.” 

Sir Leon acquiesced, reluctantly, and bid the prince goodnight. As he and Thomas turned the corner, Leon hesitated and watched Arthur for a few more moments, until at last they set off for the castle. 

Arthur stood in the road feeling lost. If he returned to The Rising Sun, he would have to be Prince Arthur, first knight of Camelot. But tonight Arthur wanted to be nobody at all. He glanced down at his clothing. It was finely made and handsome, but in his tunic and dark blue jerkin he might be able to pass for a nobleman in a place where his face was not known. 

And so Arthur set off down the street, following his instincts, in search of a place to disappear. He found it in an alley, where pale yellow light splashed against the opposing building and a hanging wooden signboard announced his destination: The Dancing Bear. A crude illustration accompanied the words, a huge bear holding a mug of ale in each paw, one leg up in an approximation of dancing, Arthur supposed. He ducked down the alleyway and stepped carefully over the potholes and puddles, wrinkling his nose at the smell. 

The Dancing Bear was half the size of The Rising Sun, but sparsely populated in a way that made Arthur breathe easier. He felt the eyes of every patron on him as he made his way to the bar and ordered an ale. The barmaid, if that was the right word, was a matronly woman with a fierce scowl. She looked him up and down, waited for him to place his payment on the board, and only then filled a mug with ale. Arthur murmured his thanks and wandered away to find a table, seeking out one in the darkest corner of the room.

The ale was bitter and strong. Arthur grimaced at the taste, but kept drinking, willing the drink to dim his memory. In spite of his efforts, Arthur found his thoughts returning again and again to that last day in the woods, and the terrible revelation. Until tonight, he’d been able to stoke the fires of his anger high whenever he thought of Merlin. _Liar. Traitor. Sorcerer._ But tonight, in this seedy tavern, surrounded by strangers, all he could think of was Merlin’s face streaked with tears, eyes pleading and so very blue. His rage was a shield against the terrible sense of loss that now threatened to overwhelm him. _I thought he was my friend. I trusted him. I shared everything with him._ And then, _He should have told me_. 

But that wasn’t right. His litany of accusations failed him there, because Arthur wouldn’t deceive himself. After all, why should Merlin trust Arthur with his deadly secret? Arthur had made his character quite clear at the campsite. He’d nearly murdered a man in cold blood, unarmed and on his knees. A man who’d just saved his life.

_With magic!_

But what of that? Would Merlin be a better man if he’d allowed the bolt to bury itself in Arthur’s back, rather than use magic? Arthur found himself remembering each time Merlin had put himself in harm’s way to for Arthur’s sake, and there were many. What if there were more? What if Merlin’s magic had been protecting Arthur all along, never taking the credit, hiding his...gifts? Could a sorcerer really be so noble? That awful day in the woods, his father’s hate raged in his mind, but now it seemed far away and faint. Instead he heard Merlin’s shaking voice: _I use it for you, Arthur. Only for you._

Arthur buried his face in his hands and groaned. Only Merlin could entangle him in such an impossible situation. Only Merlin could make him question everything he’d ever known. Whatever else he might be, Merlin was still a good man, wasn’t he? A sorcerer...but a good man? And Arthur had nearly spilled his blood on the forest floor. Memories crowded his mind. Merlin, sprawled in the dirt. Merlin, the next morning, packing the campsite with eyes red-rimmed, one ringed with blue darkening to purple. Merlin, who had soothed Arthur’s brow and chased his nightmares away. Merlin, who never made Arthur feel like he was just a title. Merlin, who gave so much of himself, and asked nothing in return, save once. Not even for his life, but for a quick death at Arthur’s hand.

If he was wrong about Merlin, then Arthur’s actions were beyond reprehensible. 

_But he’s a sorcerer! He’s manipulated me, lied to me, made a fool of me!_ Arthur’s anger surged back up as he remembered the web of deception Merlin had woven around him. It tainted everything good between them. It poisoned Arthur’s faith. It distorted his world, twisting Arthur’s certainties until he couldn’t tell up from down, right from wrong, friend from foe. Anger and shame contended within him, like two snakes tangled in a deadly battle.

He needed another drink. 

Arthur pushed himself upright with effort and made his way to the bar, stumbling a little as he went. There were more patrons now, the tavern filling up as other more respectable establishments closed for the night. Arthur waited for his ale with growing irritation as elbows and shoulders jostled him. Finally he turned, gripping his mug, and promptly collided with something.

Something was a giant of a man, stout but muscular as a blacksmith. He glowered down at Arthur. Ale, both his and Arthur’s, ran down the front of his shirt. The giant fairly growled at Arthur. 

And suddenly the world was bright white, as the giant’s fist connected with Arthur’s jaw. Arthur flew backwards, but instead of hitting the floorboards, he found himself shoved upright again by the crush of indignant patrons into which he’d fallen.

Arthur shook his head as the pain began to catch up to him. It almost felt...good. For the first time that night, his mind was clear and his thoughts were empty of Merlin. He smiled grimly to himself. The giant was already turning away from him, so Arthur clapped him on the shoulder. The man turned back in time to receive the full force of Arthur’s bare knuckles to his face, his nose almost immediately gushing with blood. The giant’s eyes unfocused and refocused on Arthur, widening with surprise and rage.

Suddenly Arthur felt hands on his arms, dragging him away from the giant and towards the door. There was commotion and shouting, he realized, though it was hard to make out. He found himself thrust outside into the wide alleyway, eyes struggling to adjust to the relative dark. 

Not alone. Within moments a second figure was thrust into the street. Arthur’s fists came up instinctively as he found himself once again face-to-face with the giant, whose shirt was now a river of blood and ale. A small crowd poured out of the tavern and formed a circle, cheering and jeering them on. 

“A crown! A crown on Big John!” called out one enterprising patron, but he was met with boos. From another, “Make it a crown on the ponce and you have yourself a wager!” Still no takers emerged. Arthur struggled to shake off his drink and focus on the raging man in front of him. Then one voice, deep but female, cut through the noise. 

“I’ll have that. A crown on the skinny one, he’s got some fight in ‘im!” In the doorway stood the mistress of the Dancing Bear. She folded her arms and nodded as voice after voice answered her wager. Arthur couldn’t help being amused, despite his situation, when she gave him a wink and a tiny smile.

The moment nearly cost him everything, for it was instinct alone that drew him back in time to dodge the next blow. Even so, Arthur heard it _whoosh_ past him, an inch from his nose. Now it was Arthur’s turn to smile. The pain in his jaw still throbbed through his skull, but he felt alive for the first time in days. Finally, something he could _fight_.

Arthur danced around the giant, letting the larger man unbalance himself as he took another swing and then another. The crowd was raucous now and Arthur hoped at least a few were questioning the wisdom of their bets. 

The giant had given up trying to box Arthur and reached out two meaty arms for his throat. It was all the opening Arthur needed. Fast as lightning, Arthur’s fist came up under the man’s chin in a savage blow. The giant reeled, staggered, and to Arthur’s surprise, dropped face first into the filthy street.

Noises of delight and dismay filled the air. The deep voice rang out again, “Alright, you lot. Pay up or don’t bother coming back. And let that be a lesson to you, that Mary knows how well you hold your ale.” And she gave Arthur another wink as she began to collect her winnings.

Arthur felt a sudden anxiety. As the glow of victory inside him dimmed, he realized he didn’t want the fight to be over. He wanted, no _needed_ , to fight again. And so, it seemed, did a few of the betting patrons. The crowd seemed to be torn between encouraging another fight, and finishing their drinks inside The Dancing Bear.

Arthur called out, “Is there no one else who’ll take up the challenge? I’ll take up the wager myself.” Murmurs from the crowd, but no takers. Arthur looked around at the circle of faces, but all eyes slid away from his. 

A voice at Arthur’s back spoke up quietly. “Will you not return with us now, my lord?”

Arthur whirled to face the speaker and found Sir Leon standing there, head lowered deferentially. Young Thomas stood a little ways behind him, but now his eyes were not wide with hero worship, but with fear. 

Arthur snarled, “Did you send your boy to follow me, Leon?”

Sir Leon continued in a low voice, “Forgive me, my lord, but would it not be wise to return before you are recognized? If your father were to hear of it--”

Arthur was enraged. First nannied by his own knight and now threatened with his father’s displeasure, he found himself the object of whispers and pointing. Sir Leon was still dressed in his chainmail and red cloak and Thomas could pass for nothing but a squire. The crowd was beginning to withdraw, apprehensive at the presence of so many people of “quality” in their midst.

“Well come on, Leon. You followed me. Do you want a go?”

Leon shook his head. He whispered more insistently, “ _Please_ , sire.”

Arthur brought his fists up. “Fight, if you’re not a coward.”

The two men locked eyes. Arthur knew he should feel ashamed, but the heat of his anger consumed all other emotions. 

“ _Your highness_ ,” Leon said, and it was just loud enough that a fresh round of whispers ran through the dwindling crowd. Some wanted to stay, while others removed themselves with speed, eyes darting back and forth between the two men. “If I fight, will you agree to return to the palace?” Anger now tinged Sir Leon’s voice as well. Distantly, Arthur knew Leon was acting to protect him, as always. And yet he could not find it in himself to back down.

“As you like,” Arthur answered indifferently, and he watched as Sir Leon swept his cape from his shoulders. Thomas scrambled to catch it and keep it from the muck of the street. The boy’s face was pale. A fresh wave of shame threatened Arthur’s resolve, but he steeled himself to face his unwilling opponent.

Leon and Arthur circled each other. Boxing was hardly a regular part of a knight’s training, but both men knew each other’s style well from the years of Arthur’s childhood, when Leon had been Arthur’s teacher. The older man smiled grimly. “Remember your stance, your highness.”

Arthur acknowledged him with a terse, “Tuck your chin, _knight_. I don’t want you to make this too easy.” 

Leon’s long-suffering patience gave out, as Arthur knew it would. He swung at Arthur. Too slow. Arthur easily dodged the blow. Leon returned his hands to his face, keeping his weight as low as possible for such a tall man. Arthur returned the blow, but Leon side-stepped him so neatly that Arthur nearly lost his balance. Ever noble, Leon didn’t press his advantage, giving Arthur a moment to right himself. Arthur went in for a body blow. It connected with Leon’s right side and the knight exhaled a sharp breath of pain. 

Only a few stragglers remained, and those few mostly kept to the shadows, anxious to avoid attention but eager not to miss the fight. Inside, faces peered around the doorframe and patrons whispered to each other. Was that really the _prince_? Drunk and fighting his own knight in the street? From the stoop Mary watched, but there was no trace of a smile in her eyes.

Now the fight was in deadly earnest. The men circled each other and looked for openings. They swung at each other in turn, neither connecting. Finally Arthur saw his opportunity. Leon had dropped his arms just fractionally, but it was enough. Arthur pivoted as his fist flew at Leon’s unguarded chin. The knight’s head popped to one side with the force of the blow and he staggered, slipped in the mud, and came down heavily on one knee.

Sir Leon didn’t rise immediately. Instead he lifted his head wearily and looked Arthur in the eye. Arthur felt a pang of guilt. He’d goaded Leon into this fight and his best knight had only taken the bait to protect his prince. And what a prince Arthur was tonight, brawling in the street, without regard whom he endangered, behaving like the spoiled brat he had been in his youth. _Like a prat_ , he heard Merlin’s voice say in his head. _A royal arse._

The fight went out of him.

Arthur reached a hand to help Leon up. There was still anger in his knight’s face, but he allowed the assistance. Thomas ran to him. He did not look at Arthur, but busied himself retying Leon’s cape and brushing down his clothes. Wordlessly, the three started down the alleyway towards the main road.

As they neared the palace, Leon turned to his squire and quietly urged him to go on ahead. The boy obeyed, looking back over his shoulder once or twice as if to reassure himself of Sir Leon’s safety. Arthur smiled in spite of himself.

“He’s a good squire.”

Leon nodded. “That he is, sire.”

“Leon, I--” Arthur began, but Leon held up a hand to stop him. Arthur sighed and fell silent.

“If I may, sire?” Leon looked tired and older than his years, just then. Arthur nodded for him to go on. “Get Merlin back. Whatever he’s done, whatever happened. Just get him back.” Leon hesitated, then, “He’s good for you.”

A dark cloud passed over Arthur’s features, but he kept his voice steady as he replied: “Unless you’re ready for another fight, you will not mention him to me again.”

A tense moment held, and then Leon bowed. “Goodnight, your highness.”

Arthur walked back to his own chambers. He kicked off his boots and climbed into bed, suddenly too tired to light the fire or change his clothes. He felt the pain in his jaw and the bruising on his knuckles--and still he saw Merlin lying in the dirt, tears in his eyes. Arthur flipped over, punched his pillow, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes to banish the image. Instead, tears too long restrained ran down his face, and Arthur found himself shaking with silent sobs of frustration and anger. 

Eventually, spent from the tears and the ale and the evening, Arthur fell heavily asleep.

His dreams gave him little peace. Again and again Arthur woke from the same nightmares. Exhausted and frustrated by failure, Arthur sat up in bed, determined to stay awake until dawn. His thoughts turned to Merlin again. Merlin startled and stammering after waking Arthur that first awful night. Merlin stroking his forehead with long, gentle fingers. Merlin with his arms wrapped tight around his prince, keeping the night terrors at bay. Arthur gave up. No longer resisting, he let the memories tumble about in his mind until he could almost feel that loving touch on his skin, the safety of that embrace.

Arthur didn’t remember falling asleep, but no more nightmares disturbed his rest. When dawn stretched out golden fingers to wake him, Arthur did not open his eyes at once. Instead he snatched at the dream that was already slipping away from him until only fragment remained: 

Merlin, standing before him with a sad smile on his face. Merlin, turning away from him. Merlin, fading as the daylight filtered in, until at last Arthur awoke, still whispering his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All barmaids are Mary. No, I will not elaborate.


	7. The Lost Nights - Secrets and Lies

Dawn splashed gold and coral across the small whitewashed room with her customary exuberance, quite indifferent to the miserable figure wide awake in his narrow cot. As sunlight filled the room, Merlin lay with the heavy wool blanket pulled up to his chin and tried to ignore the summons in his head.

_Merlin. Merlin. Merlin!_

It was not the voice that had called him from his rest, his first night in Camelot, the voice that spoke in portents and prophecies. It was only an echo of that voice, an illusion cast by Merlin’s own conscience. Since his return, Merlin had not spoken to the Great Dragon, Kilgharrah, whose heavy chains kept him a prisoner beneath the deepest dungeons of the Citadel. But this was a conversation he could only avoid for so long. It was Kilgharrah who first told him of his destiny with Arthur to return magic and balance to Camelot and to unite the five kingdoms under the great banner of Albion. 

And now Merlin had to confess that he’d failed almost before he’d begun.

Merlin pushed himself upright and steeled himself for the task. He'd put it off this long already. Gaius might not question him too closely, but he would raise an eyebrow at Merlin for leaving their chambers for the first time since his return to Camelot. Perhaps Gaius would not be the only one to take notice. Unconsciously, Merlin probed gently at his bruised and darkened eyesocket. He found himself wanting his traveling cloak. It was not much of a disguise, but facing the world beyond his room felt as daunting as facing the Great Dragon himself. 

His bags still lay where he’d dropped them upon his arrival, and somewhere in them, lay his traveling cloak. But when he opened his bag, he found no blue cloak. Rather, he drew forth a finely made red tunic and another of pale cream, stained with dirt and leaves. The scent hit him almost at once. Merlin groaned. It was Arthur’s bag, and Arthur’s clothes, and beneath the smell of the earth and campfire, Arthur’s scent. Merlin fell back across the bed and pressed the tunic to his face, tears already pricking at the corners of his eyes.

He dropped his hands and sighed, then balled up the tunic and threw it against the far wall. His forbidden desires had brought about a disastrous end to the prophecy, and here he was, pining like the fool he was for something that never was and now could never be. 

It was time to face the truth. It was time to see Kilgharrah.

❧

 _Arthur’s breath catches as he reaches hesitantly, unsure whether this can really be allowed. Dimly he remembers that there are reasons and there are barriers, but now that Merlin is here with him, they seem distant and unclear. Merlin smiles a little and ducks his head to allow Arthur to touch, and Arthur does. He runs his fingers through those soft black curls and_ why _did he ever think something was more important than this? Impulsively, he tightens his fingers and pulls Merlin into a kiss. It’s so new and yet it feels like home, and the kiss begins chaste but doesn’t stay that way for long. Arthur drags Merlin down onto the bed with him and Merlin follows eagerly. He positions his long limbs over Arthur’s, and the way he holds himself above Arthur creates a tiny secret world all their own. They gasp and pant and kiss with ferocity, making up for lost time, crushing apologies like grapes between their lips, making wine from the sorrows of the past._

_Merlin is strong, Arthur murmurs, stronger than he looks and Merlin laughs. “I told you. Why do you never listen?” They laugh between kisses in their hidden world. And then a wave of urgency crashes over them and now Merlin’s face is buried in the crook of Arthur’s neck. His long fingers clasp Arthur’s, draw his arms over his head, and pin them hard against the mattress. Arthur doesn’t fight him. He arches his neck and moans aloud as Merlin bites down, marking him, claiming him._

_Their bodies are flush against each other, fitted perfectly and they begin to strain and rut. The sensation is almost too good, too much and though Arthur wants more, he cannot stop himself. There is nothing, nothing in this world that could be important enough to keep him from this feeling, this touch so long desired, and so long denied. “Please,” he pants, and he can feel Merlin smile at the “please”. “I want...I want…” Merlin makes a soft inquiring sound and lifts his head. But how can Arthur ask for something like this? He feels shame, knows that a warrior should not let another man lay him down like this, should not want to be passive, to be...entered. But he knows that’s exactly what he craves. To feel Merlin inside himself, to know no separation between them. He looks pleadingly at Merlin, willing him to understand._

_Merlin’s eyes widen and he looks shaken, reverent. “Oh, Arthur…” he breathes, and it is a prayer. And then he is stripping his tunic away and pulling Arthur’s over his head. They rush to divest themselves of breeches and smalls until their bodies are pressed to each other with no barrier between them and there is so much skin to touch, so much to breathe and to taste. And then Merlin slides his hand down Arthur’s chest, brushing past his leaking cock, and gently moves inside his thigh to find that secret place. He strokes at Arthur’s entrance and Arthur bucks from the sheer sensitivity of it all. He allows his legs to fall open and his heart pounds with fear and want as Merlin presses them back to expose him._

_Merlin’s blue eyes search his, still questioning, still seeking permission. “Yes,” Arthur whispers, “Yes, Merlin, yes.” And there is a warmth at his entrance, an impossible girth, but somehow he is slick and wet and as Merlin breaches him, Arthur feels every inch. Merlin's cock is velvety and hard at the same time, and as he drives steadily in, Arthur realizes he’s too far gone to stop. Merlin slides deeper and deeper until he is seated within Arthur, hot and hard, and Arthur is so full. Merlin is everywhere. His arms clasp Arthur close and his lips pronounce Arthur’s name with religious fervor and he begins to move, and everywhere, everywhere is love. With a cry, Arthur comes apart, untouched. The heat from Merlin’s body is like the sun, and Arthur opens his eyes to the light._

In the bright yellow morning, Arthur could see his belly and covers were soaked with his spend. The warmth of the sun remained, but nothing else. Arthur was alone. 

❧

Merlin pulled a torch from the wall sconce and lit it with a whisper, as he made his way down the labyrinthine corridors beneath the Citadel. Though still mid-morning on the surface, it was perpetual night here in the caverns far below the lowest and loneliest dungeons. Merlin’s feet dragged. It had taken all his willpower to find his way down here in the first place, and his stomach was sick with dread.

Merlin descended the last curving stone steps and stood on that precipice overlooking the Great Dragon’s prison, an enormous cavern rising higher than the eye could see and sinking into gloomy darkness below. He stood dumbly, unable to find the words to even announce himself. 

There was no need. 

A thunderous beating of wings and the clanking of massive chains broke the stillness, and the Great Dragon himself, Kilgharrah, last of his kind landed on his perch before Merlin. He felt great golden eyes upon him, and a solemn kind of patience that gave nearly a physical weight to the air around him.

“So, young warlock, are you returned so soon from the wilds? Why have you come here?” Merlin couldn’t meet Kilgharrah’s gaze. The dragon regarded him gravely. Then, in a more somber tone, “What has happened, young warlock?”

Merlin swallowed hard and heard himself say, “He knows.”

A great silence stretched out between the dragon and the boy.

“Tell me how it happened.”

Merlin took a deep breath and forced his head up to look Kilgharrah in the eye. “We were attacked. I had to use my magic in front of Arthur, to save his life.” His voice caught and the next words came out scarcely louder than a whisper, hollow and hopeless. “He thinks I’m a monster. I’ve lost Arthur’s trust. I’ve lost _him_." His eyes filled with tears. "I’ve failed.” He dropped his head and waited in silence.

Kilgharrah did not respond immediately, but Merlin felt the dragon’s gaze pierce him. “There is more.”

Merlin lifted a tear-streaked face, hesitated, and then nodded.

“I love him. And now it doesn’t matter. He hates me.”

To his surprise, the Great Dragon shook his mighty head slowly and there was something like a smile in his voice. “This is human foolishness. Arthur cannot hate you. The half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole.”

“But you don’t understand!” Merlin exploded, and the torch in his hand flared. “Arthur’s mind is poisoned by Uther’s hatred for all magic! You didn’t see him. You didn’t see how he changed.” Frustrated beyond speech, Merlin grabbed the neck of his tunic and pulled it down to reveal the dark red cut over his heart, just beginning to scab over. “He wanted to kill me!”

“And yet if it were so, you would not be here. Arthur is not his father. Love, not hate, flows through his veins. Your paths lie together, whether Arthur sees it yet or not.” Kilgharrah looked at the tiny figure before him for a long moment. When he continued, his tone was almost gentle. “Young warlock, I see that you are in pain and it grieves me. You are my kin, a creature of magic. You are magic itself.” Then, patiently, as if he were explaining something to a child, “How can Arthur hate you, when he himself is born of the same magic that flows in your veins?”

Merlin’s head shot up. “What does that mean? Arthur...is born of magic?" Kilgharrah did not answer. "Do you mean the queen had magic?”

A booming laugh filled the chamber, but it was tinged with bitterness. “No, young warlock. Igraine was a mighty queen, but no magic flowed in her veins.”

Merlin’s frustration boiled over. “Why do you always speak in riddles to me? What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to understand? How can _Arthur_ be ‘born of magic’?”

Kilgharrah peered at him curiously. “I speak in riddles because it is the way of dragons, and of prophecies. It would serve you better to ask one who was there.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Merlin exclaimed. His store of patience was entirely used up.

Kilgharrah hummed thoughtfully to himself. “Who do you think attended the young prince’s birth? _You_ know him well enough.” After a pause, “Did the traitor Gaius never tell you why Uther would see you dead, young warlock? Interesting...”

“Gaius? What do you mean? Answer me! Tell me what I need to know!” Merlin opened his mouth to continue, but stumbled backward as a whirlwind filled the cavern. Kilgharrah rose on mighty wings, his terrible chain stretching upwards, and in a final gust of wind the Great Dragon disappeared from sight.

Merlin felt a scream of frustration build inside him. He threw his head back and roared with pure incoherent rage. The cavern returned his scream with a hundred mocking echoes from every direction.

Worn out and defeated, Merlin turned and made his way back up the winding stairs towards the light of day. His own thoughts, however, remained shrouded in darkness.

❧

Arthur tugged the blue cloak down over his face. Of course it was Merlin’s traveling cloak, drawn from the pack he’d left by mistake. His clothes were Merlin’s as well, though they clung to him where they hung slack on Merlin’s skinny frame. But his discovery of the cloak--aided by the evening’s sack of wine--suggested a direction for the evening that a more sober Arthur would have vetoed. 

The past couple of days Arthur had thrown himself into his duties, but none with more vigor than training his knights. He pushed them, and himself, further than ever. By the end of the session, even the strongest of his knights were gasping. More than a few left limping, or with an arm around a squire for support. The newest recruits took it in stride, eager to prove themselves, but even so, young Sir Gareth passed out from the heat and had to be taken to Gaius, just to be safe. Sir Geraint looked a bit sick as well when he removed his helmet, but it might have been dismay at seeing so many experienced knights struggle to keep up with the unrelenting demands of their prince. Only Sir Leon showed no reaction, though he caught Arthur’s eye more than once with an expression that was hard to name. Each time, Arthur found himself looking away first.

Training hard helped with the barrage of unanswerable questions and unwanted emotions that assailed Arthur by day. But by night, even after drinking more than he knew he should, Arthur couldn’t escape thoughts of Merlin. And while his head was confused, his heart conflicted, gods damn it all, his cock was crystal clear in its desires. And so Arthur took himself in hand more often than he had since his early adolescence, and tried not to think of Merlin. Inevitably, he failed. His body remembered the weight and the angles of Merlin pressed against him. He could still feel the dawning awareness of Merlin’s cock thrust against him in sleep, and the lazy pleasure of arching back against it. 

His arousal refused to be stoked by past fantasies. No, instead his imagination supplied endless new scenarios with one constant: Merlin. He imagined things he’d never wanted before. Surrendering to the exploration of those slender fingers and those sinfully plush lips, sinking to his knees to take the blushing head of Merlin’s cock in his mouth, and the most forbidden desire of all, to let himself be _taken_ by Merlin. Arthur discovered that thoughts of Merlin pushed his nightmares aside, but they left him vulnerable to dreams like this morning’s. This was the second time he’d woken with his belly covered in his own cooling release, ashamed and still aroused, and perfectly miserable. 

And so Arthur found himself walking in the direction of the Rising Sun. Instead of turning in at the familiar signboard, Arthur walked a little further down the road, until he came to an alley into which spilled warm, inviting light and what looked to be more than one couple taking advantage of a pleasant night and a sturdy wall. 

Tugging self-consciously at his hood again, Arthur ducked into the narrow lane and made his way carefully past the amorous patrons and into the Ruby in the Rough. At first glance, the establishment seemed not too different from The Rising Sun, a moderately crowded bar. But as his eyes began to adjust, Arthur noticed the scant and risqué clothing adorning the “barmaids,” who were far too numerous for such a small tavern. Every few minutes a patron would disappear up the stairs or through the back, accompanied by one or more laughing guides. 

Arthur had never visited a whorehouse, but he’d overheard enough hastily cut off conversations among the knights concerning events at The Ruby, as it was affectionately known. This wasn’t too far from his imagination, although he had no idea what to do next. Ought he initiate a conversation? Was there a madame to conduct transactions? What if he spoke to another patron by mistake? What if he recognized someone, or worse, was recognized? Arthur’s heart began to race and the haze of wine was quickly abandoning him, along with his bravado.

Then suddenly, as he looked across the room, Arthur’s heart lurched. He caught himself. It wasn’t _him_ , of course. This man looked to be a little older than Merlin, though not much. His hair was dark, though maybe not as dark as Merlin’s. And his eyes were pale, though whether blue or green, Arthur couldn’t make out in the low light. He was Arthur’s height. The resemblance wasn’t so very great after all, but it was enough to make Arthur’s pulse spike.

The man looked back at him and gave an inviting smile. 

Arthur looked away. He was beginning to regret his rash decision. This was ridiculous. He could have ordered a servant of discretion to procure a whore for him in the comfort of his own chambers. There might be gossip, but it was well within his rights and perfectly natural. Whereas the gossip if he were discovered at a brothel, well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Arthur made up his mind to leave.

He scarcely controlled his startled response when he heard a voice at his ear. 

“Good evening, sweetheart. Here on your own? You look like you might enjoy some company.”

Arthur turned to the speaker and his breath caught for the barest moment. It was the man from across the room. Up close he was truly striking. Dark curls and pale green eyes, slim but strong-looking, shapely lips turned up in a kind smile. More than anything, it was the man’s gentle expression that took him by surprise.

“I’m Rafe. Want to come upstairs? My room is the nicest. The old lady’s sweet on me, you know. Treats me like a son. We’ll get you something to drink, too.”

Arthur found his hand clasped in the stranger’s and before he could make up his mind, he was following the young man through the crowd and up a second stairway. He wanted to be drinking again and welcomed Rafe’s offer, as far as that went. But oh gods, he was going to a _whore’s_ room, in a brothel. He reminded himself that he wanted this. Oh, not this man, not this situation. But this, _this_ was something he could have. 

And Merlin was not. 

Merlin had lied to his face. Merlin had doted on Arthur, showed him tenderness, made him feel wanted and desired--not as a prince, but as a man, not for his title, but for himself. But as he’d told Merlin, what felt like a lifetime ago, a prince was not a man. A prince was a man with power. And now Arthur knew the price of that power. No one would ever see him as he thought Merlin had seen him, want him as Merlin seemed to want him, touch him as...gods, as Merlin had touched him. For favor, for advancement, perhaps, but never for himself. 

And so he allowed himself to be taken in hand by a whore, because his illusions were gone and at least this transaction was honest. Coin in exchange for pleasure. Coin in exchange for the touch of another’s hand on his skin. Coin, to lose himself in the haze of lust and alcohol and let a stranger take away his inexperience. It hardly felt like a loss of innocence. His innocence was lost already, to eyes that flashed gold and lips that spoke lies. 

“Ah, there we are, sweetheart. Come on in and make yourself at home.” Rafe pushed open the door and laid his hand comfortably on the small of Arthur’s back. Arthur shivered. He glanced around the room. A modest bed took up nearly the entire space. It was flanked by a wardrobe and a small table upon which rested a few bottles and jars. It was neat enough, if spare. He reached the edge of the bed and turned, unsure of how to proceed.

The young man regarded him thoughtfully. “Not sure what you want, are you?” Rafe crossed the room and poured out a cup of golden spirits. He extended his hand to Arthur, who took the cup warily. “That’s alright. It might be fun to find out together, you know.” Arthur sipped at the drink, a surprisingly pleasant honeymead, and did not answer.

Rafe moved slowly, closing the distance between them. He tentatively stroked the side of Arthur’s face. To his surprise, Arthur found himself closing his eyes and leaning into his hand. He ached. Beneath the touch of a stranger, he felt the ghost of Merlin’s gentle fingers. But this was real, and Rafe was...kind. Arthur hadn’t expected kindness. He downed the last of his mead and let Rafe take the cup away.

“Do you want to touch me?” Rafe asked. Arthur found himself unable to answer, or even remember what he’d intended this night to be. Rafe smiled, “No, I know what you need.” And Rafe took Arthur’s face in his hands, drew him close, and kissed him.

It was so different to those kisses by the campfire. It did not send lightning racing through his veins or set his heart pounding in his chest. But it was warm and intense and so very real. Arthur felt a pang of guilt, followed by a wave of frustration. How could a stranger’s kiss be a betrayal? It was Merlin who had betrayed him, with his countless lies and secrets.

Rafe hummed against his lips as he withdrew. The young man searched Arthur’s face with piercing eyes. “So who is he?” Rafe asked, gently.

Arthur started. He readied a denial, but Rafe shook his head. “I may be just a whore to you, but I can tell you’re not here with me. That’s alright, sweetheart. Who do you want me to be? Close your eyes, and just for tonight, let me be him.”

“You’re not...I mean, I don’t think of you as just--” Arthur stammered awkwardly.

“Shh, shhh...It’s alright, sweetheart.” Rafe put a hand on his chest, where Arthur’s heart was beginning to pound with trepidation. “Let’s start over. What would you like me to call you?” 

Arthur stiffened. “Me? Nothing, that is, I’m...I’m no one.”

“No one? Nobody’s no one, sweetheart. But don’t worry about me. I’m new here. You could be the crown prince of Camelot, and I’d be none the wiser.”

Arthur froze, but Rafe continued to whisper calmingly to him. A part of Arthur was amused. Rafe spoke to him like a groom soothing a particularly nervous mare. Arthur made a conscious choice to relax his shoulders and try to breathe normally. He hadn’t been recognized, after all, and Rafe was surprisingly comfortable to be with. Now Rafe’s hands were brushing over Arthur’s chest, thumbing lightly as they passed over his nipples, sending a shiver down Arthur’s spine. He pushed Arthur gently until his back was against the wall. Then Rafe turned and pressed his body into Arthur’s, hands still roving along his waist and hips as he ground against Arthur’s cock. Arthur felt himself begin to respond. The room felt suddenly warm and the air sparked with unspoken possibilities.

“Maybe you want to take me? You’ve never had trim as tight and hot as mine, I promise you that. Or maybe you want something you’ve never let yourself have…?” And against his instincts Arthur let Rafe turn him to face the wall, hands to either side of his head. Rafe pressed his body against him, and rocked his hard cock against Arthur’s buttocks. Arthur's breath hitched and he closed his eyes. He could almost imagine it was Merlin, waking up hard against him in the grey morning. He arched his back slightly, as he had then, and Rafe fairly cooed with delight. Arthur could hear the smile in Rafe’s voice. “Oh, sweetheart, yes...we can work with that.” But rather than continue, Rafe turned him so that they were once again face-to-face. 

“But you need to relax first. Now, close your eyes and just for tonight, let me be him. What is my name?”

Arthur’s heart pounded. This was pushing the act too far. And yet he heard himself say, “Merlin. You’re...your name is Merlin.”

“Merlin. Whoever he is, he’s a damn fool, sweetheart. But I’m happy to make amends for him.” And Rafe’s hands began to wander from Arthur’s chest, across his belly, along his flanks. Finally he slipped one hand down to stroke Arthur’s erection through his breeches, as his other hand snaked around Arthur’s waist to cup and squeeze Arthur’s arse. Arthur felt his knees weaken. It was _good_ . The way Rafe touched him, like he was something precious...it wasn’t Merlin, gods, nothing was Merlin...but it was good. And if he closed his eyes, it was almost, _almost_... 

The pace of Rafe’s strokes accelerated. He whispered, “Shhh, just relax. You’re safe. Now close your eyes. Let me be him.” And with that, he began to kiss Arthur’s neck. Arthur shuddered, whether from pleasure or self-loathing he didn’t know. The kisses began to descend. When Rafe’s fingers teased Arthur’s nipples through his tunic, arousal jolted through his cock, now straining against his breeches. Dimly he remembered that these were Merlin’s own clothes--they still smelled faintly of him, and it was so wrong--but the shame only heated his desire. 

Arthur didn’t need to open his eyes to see Rafe sink slowly to his knees, bury his face between Arthur’s thighs, hot breath reaching his cock through the fabric. Rafe continued to knead Arthur’s buttocks as he mouthed along the straining length. Arthur was trembling with desire now. He doubted he could last long. He felt Rafe’s dexterous hands untie his laces, and he willed them to be Merlin’s. Rafe reached for the heat of Arthur’s naked cock and Arthur’s hips bucked in response. _Merlin_ , he thought, _Merlin’s hands, Merlin’s mouth, Merlin on his knees…_

Arthur opened his eyes, looking down to see the dark head bowed, the slender young man kneeling before him. And it was Merlin, yes--but it was Merlin in the forest. It was Merlin on his knees, head bowed in submission, in surrender. It was Merlin lifting his eyes only to beg Arthur, “Please...don’t let me burn.” 

And suddenly Arthur’s arousal vanished, replaced by a gut-churning sense of shame and guilt. His hands flew to Rafe’s head, stilling him instantly. Rafe looked up with sudden concern. At a glance at the expression on Arthur’s face, he rose to his feet. 

Arthur fumbled to retie his laces, his words tumbling over each other as he struggled to speak. “I’m sorry--oh gods, I’m so sorry. I can’t. I can’t do this. I need, I need to get out of here.” In a moment Arthur felt that all the air had gone from his lungs, from the room, and he was suffocating.

Rafe looked truly startled for a moment, but then he pushed Arthur’s flailing fingers aside and redid the laces on his breeches with swift, sure movements. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll pay, I just…” Arthur struggled to detach his coin purse and dropped it in his haste.

“Shhh, shhh…” Rafe hushed him. He took Arthur’s hands in his and looked him full in the face, with curiosity, but also with tenderness. “It’s alright, sweetheart.” Rafe brushed the hair from Arthur’s eyes and smiled a little sadly. “It’s going to be alright.” He interlaced his fingers with Arthur's and then said in a more authoritative tone, “Come here.”

Arthur followed Rafe to the door of the little room. Rafe opened it and led Arthur down the narrow hallway in the opposite direction from their approach. He pointed out a small spiral staircase, barely wide enough to admit one person. “That leads out to the street on the other side of the Ruby. No one will see you. Take the next turn and there’s the main road.” 

Rafe leaned in and kissed Arthur gently on the lips. “Goodnight.” He hesitated and then whispered, _“Sire_. _”_ And he ran his thumb over Arthur’s signet ring. “I won’t say a word. But this Merlin? He’s a fool. Anyone can see you’re worth the world.”

Arthur found his voice. “No. You’re kind but...it’s me. I’m the fool.” Arthur grimaced. “I don’t deserve either of you.” And after the briefest hesitation, Arthur dipped his head to return the kiss. “Thank you, Rafe.” 

With that, he turned and walked quickly to the staircase, disappearing into the night.

Rafe leaned out of one of the windows, shutters thrown open to the clean night air and the soft glow of moonlight. Another door down the hallway opened and after several giggles and kisses, a young woman parted from her client and came to join Rafe at his perch. They watched as a lone figure in a traveling cloak crossed the street and disappeared around the bend.

“Who was that then?” Sally asked.

Rafe smiled and nudged her shoulder amiably. “No one.”

They chatted for a few minutes and then Sally pecked Rafe on the cheek and descended the stairs to the first floor of the Ruby.

But Rafe returned to his room. This time he locked the door and approached the chest of drawers. He slid open a drawer and felt for the false bottom, lifted it, and drew forth a small wooden box. Opening the lid, he withdrew a finely embroidered linen handkerchief and a beautiful miniature carved from ivory. It was a portrait of a young nobleman, his features handsome and delicately engraved. Rafe held the handkerchief to his nose for a moment, to catch the faint remaining scent of perfume. He held the portrait to his lips. And then he replaced both within the box, and the box within the hidden compartment.

Rafe sighed, unlocked the door, and went downstairs. 

❧

The door to Gaius’ chambers flew open as Merlin burst into the room. Glass shattered as the old physician dropped the vial he’d been examining. 

“Good heaven’s, Merlin, what’s got into you?” Gaius exclaimed.

Merlin’s eyes smouldered, but he turned back and carefully, deliberately locked and barred the door. 

Gaius surveyed him with one arched eyebrow, and waited.

“What...are you...not telling me?” Merlin said through gritted teeth.

Gaius folded his arms and looked the young man over. He was like a wild creature. Merlin’s tunic was askew, his dark brows were drawn together, and the bruised circle around his eye gave him an air of instability.

Gaius chose his words carefully. “There is a great deal I know and there are many things I have not told you yet.” He frowned, “Merlin. What is this about?”

Merlin breathed heavily and tried to calm his roiling emotions. In a low voice he said, “You know. You know why Uther hates magic. You know why my life is forfeit every day I stay in Camelot and _you’re not telling me_.”

Gaius’s expression did not change, but Merlin sensed his shock. After a long moment, Gaius sighed and gestured to a worktable. “Sit down.”

“Gaius, why--”

“Sit. _Down_.” Gaius’s voice was unusually forceful and commanding. Merlin crossed the room in a few long strides and sat, arms tightly crossed, lips pressed together in a thin line. 

The physician wiped his hands clean from the shattered vial’s contents and joined Merlin, sitting opposite him. Gaius interlaced his fingers.

“Merlin, what you are asking...it is treason.”

Merlin opened his mouth.

Gaius plowed ahead, “I made a solemn oath twenty years ago never to speak of these matters. You do not know what you are asking. You do not know the harm that could follow.”

“And you don’t know how much harm your secrets may already have done!”

“ _Merlin!_ ” Gaius snapped. “You don't know what you're talking about. You were not yet alive in those days, at the beginning of the Great Purge. You cannot imagine what we witnessed, those of us who survived, or what sacrifices we made to protect ourselves and our loved ones.” He softened a little, then. “Merlin, dear boy, I understand why you want to know everything. It must seem very cowardly, or very cruel, to keep the truth from you. But there are things you cannot understand unless you have lived through them. What you are asking...Merlin, forgive me. I cannot tell you.”

Merlin gaped at the old man. Gaius was the nearest person to a father Merlin had ever known and up until this moment, he would have trusted his life to Gaius’s wisdom. “You can’t mean that, Gaius. These secrets, all these secrets and lies, they’re poison. They’ve already poisoned Arthur, my destiny, _our_ destiny--everything we’re meant to do together...how can I help restore magic to Camelot, when you won’t even tell me why it was outlawed in the first place?” Merlin shook his head slowly. “You’re the only one who can help me learn the truth." He stood up. "You’ve always taught me to do what is right, Gaius. But this is wrong. It’s wrong and you know it.”

Gaius began to speak, but Merlin was already walking away. And so Gaius let him go. The boy disappeared up the stairs. The narrow door slammed closed. 

Merlin did not emerge again for the rest of the day. He ignored Gaius’s summons to dinner. He lay on his cot and stared at the ceiling as the Great Dragon’s words circled again and again in his thoughts. _Born of magic, born of magic, born of magic…_

That night Merlin dreamed of Arthur. Snatches of memory and strange scenes played themselves out as he slept, weirdly disjointed and yet somehow connected in a way Merlin couldn’t put his finger on. Arthur as a little boy, dressed in oversized mail and plate. Arthur as an infant sitting among the leaves on the forest floor, crying soundlessly. Arthur as a young man, climbing up onto the pyre with a lit torch in his hand and looking out over an empty square. 

In every dream and nightmare, Arthur’s eyes were golden.


	8. The Lost Nights - Nowhere To Go But Up

When his window admitted the first light of morning and even the brightest stars faded into that liminal grey, Merlin was already awake. For the first time since his return, his mind was clear, his thoughts were settled, and his eyes were entirely dry. He had spent the night alternating between bouts of anger, grief, and frustration until his tired heart could hardly feel anything at all. And there, at the end of his struggles and the exhaustion of his hope, Merlin made his choice. There was no joy in his decision, but there was some comfort in finally setting his own course instead of being blown about like a storm-tossed ship. 

Merlin waited until he could hear Gaius stirring, before he emerged from his room. He pushed the door open quietly and watched for a few moments as the old man began his day. He smiled fondly as Gaius heated water and ground oats for their usual breakfast of porridge. Gaius always cooked their meals, because Merlin was often out the door at the first light of dawn and did not return until Arthur had gone to bed. Merlin wondered if he’d ever really thanked Gaius for all his habitual kindnesses. 

The door creaked as Merlin pushed it the rest of the way open and Gaius looked up sharply. They stood there and surveyed one another for a long, tense moment. Then Merlin gave a lopsided grin and said, “Morning, Gaius.” 

His guardian heaved an audible sigh of relief and smiled back. “Good morning, Merlin.”

Merlin came down the steps and took the kettle off the fire, just as it began to boil. He stood beside Gaius and poured out the water over the ground porridge. Gaius took down a glass container of dried berries and sprinkled them over each bowl, more liberally over Merlin’s than his own, Merlin noticed. He also noticed that Gaius’s hands trembled.

“Merlin, I--”

“Gaius--”

They both spoke at the same time. Merlin laughed softly and waited for Gaius to go on.

Gaius cleared his throat and looked down, busily stirred the thickening porridge as he said, “Merlin, about last night. I know that was not the answer you were hoping for, and I fully understand if you are still angry with me. I'm truly sorry, my boy. I never want to deny you anything.”

Merlin turned towards him, placing a hand on the old man's arm, and this time Gaius lifted his gaze. “I’m sorry too, for losing my temper. I know you have your reasons. You’ve always taken care of me and protected me and I don’t tell you thank you often enough. I understand now why my mother sent me to you.”

Gaius’s eyebrow raised. There was something oddly formal about Merlin’s tone. All of the fire from last night was gone, yet he didn’t sound resigned either.

Merlin carried their bowls to the table. Gaius poured out two cups of tea and followed him. As they sat down to their breakfast, an uneasy silence fell between them. Merlin was the first to break it.

“Gaius, could I have some parchment to write a few letters?”

“Of course, my dear boy,” said Gaius, relieved at the request. 

“Thanks, Gaius.” Merlin loaded his spoon with as many berries as he could fit on it. “I need to say goodbye. I’m going back to Ealdor.” 

Gaius’s spoon fell to the floor with a clatter. Merlin blew on the porridge to cool it, and then tucked in.

❧

Arthur woke bright and early with a splitting headache and a sense of mortification that kept him in bed, playing and replaying memories of the previous night. The blue traveler’s cloak ( _Merlin’s_ cloak, he reminded himself) lay on the floor beside the bed, the hem of it still sodden and thoroughly stained with mud. Beside it lay his commoner's disguise, the tunic and breeches he’d appropriated from Merlin’s pack, crumpled in a heap where he’d hurriedly stripped. Arthur remembered with chagrin how he’d ripped the side seam in his haste, as though he could divest himself of the shame if he could only get rid of the evidence quickly enough. He’d fallen into bed and pulled the sheets up to cover his nakedness, feeling as though the clean linen was instantly sullied by contact with his person. 

Arthur felt wretched, shameful, dirty. Not because he had visited a whorehouse, or let Rafe take him to his room. On the contrary, Arthur felt sick when he realized how close he’d come to dishonoring both Merlin’s memory and Rafe’s compassion. Arthur touched his fingers to his lips, stirring the sensation of that last kiss and gentle whisper. 

No, Arthur’s shame was entirely of his own making. Without drink or lust or rage or grief to befuddle his thinking, Arthur’s head was clearer than it had been since the forest. Now his follies were laid out before him in unflinching detail. Since the moment he first beheld the gold in Merlin’s eyes, Arthur had behaved abominably. His nearly continual drunkenness. His dismissal of Gwen’s gentle wisdom. His brawls in the tavern and the street. His betrayal of Sir Leon’s loyalty. And deeper than all of these, his unspeakable cruelty to Merlin. Merlin, who’d saved his life, knowing that in doing so, his own life was forfeit. 

Whatever his crimes, however numerous his lies, there was nothing in his tragic revelation that belied Merlin’s true character. Arthur could see that now. No, he was tired of lying to himself. Arthur had known the truth of it all along. He hadn’t turned on Merlin for being a sorcerer. He had turned on Merlin...because it _hurt_. Realizing that Merlin was not the inept and hapless manservant he pretended to be, hurt. It hurt Arthur’s pride, made him feel a fool, yes. But more than that, it hurt the deepest and most secret part of Arthur’s heart, the part that had briefly cherished the wildest hope of all: that Merlin loved him, truly loved him, for himself. After all, if Merlin could lie about his magic, if there were a part of himself he’d known he could never share with Arthur, how could he possibly love him? Arthur was his natural enemy. Arthur possessed the power of life and death over Merlin. And Arthur was utterly unworthy of his trust, as he’d demonstrated in the forest and in every rash decision since.

Merlin had not broken Arthur’s heart. Arthur had done that to himself.

And now he was trapped in a prison of his own making. How could he repair such a thorough breach of trust or make amends for such a betrayal? And how could he prove himself worthy of Merlin’s forgiveness, if such a thing were even possible? These were questions for which Arthur had no answers. But it was time to stop wallowing in self-pity and act like the prince and knight Camelot deserved. 

Arthur rang for a servant and a bath. He had training later that morning, but Arthur felt as though the week’s follies were layered on his skin and he longed to scrub himself clean and begin anew. Perhaps, if he just put one foot in front of the other, Arthur could find his way back to being a man he could be proud of. Perhaps, in time, he could even become the man he should have been in the forest. Perhaps, one day, a man worthy of Merlin’s love. 

Even if that prize were already lost.

❧

By the time Merlin finished his breakfast, Gaius had still not spoken a word. Merlin collected the morning’s dishes for washing, gathered a sheaf of parchment, and returned to his room.

When he emerged some time later, Gaius was still sitting by a bowl of congealed porridge, hands folded in front of him, apparently lost in thought. Merlin busied himself straightening up the worktables, sorting jars into their appropriate places, emptying the fireplace of ash, and sweeping the floor with unusual thoroughness. When Gaius finally looked up, he found his chambers transformed. Merlin was sitting on a high stool, finishing the task of rewriting each smudged and indistinct label with meticulous care.

“Merlin.”

The boy looked up.

“Why are you doing this?"

Merlin held up the glass container in his hand. "Your eyesight is getting worse. I don't want you mixing up aconite and arborvitae when I'm gone."

Gaius sighed. "No, Merlin. I mean, why are you leaving Camelot? What about your magic? What about your destiny? What about Arthur?"

Merlin's shoulders sagged at the last question. "It was my destiny to protect Arthur and help him become a great king. He was supposed to restore magic to Camelot and unite the lands of Albion." Merlin smiled sadly. "How can that happen now? All I've done is turn him against magic. I can't even protect him. He doesn't want me, not even for a servant, let alone a friend. Gaius...what reason do I have to stay?"

Gaius could not answer him. "When will you go?" he asked.

"Day after tomorrow," Merlin answered. "There's something I want to do first."

Gaius tried to speak, but his voice caught. He nodded, blinking back sudden tears.

"How can I help?"

Merlin's smile returned and it was almost impish. "Do we have any raisins?"

❧

Several hours later, the unnatural calm in Gaius's chambers was shattered by a commotion from the hallway. Merlin and Gaius both stood up in alarm.

The door flew open and three armor-clad knights entered, holding a fourth man between them. Gaius and Merlin sprang into action instantly. Merlin swept an examination table clear and Gaius centered the unfortunate knight’s head gently on a folded blanket. Merlin didn’t need to see the flash of gold at his temple to know. 

Arthur.

“He just collapsed during training. We thought it was the heat, he hadn’t stopped for over an hour. We didn’t know he was hurt until after.” The knights spoke over each other in an unhelpful jumble of words.

“Why is he still in his armor? He could have sunstroke! What were you thinking?” Merlin shouted over the din. “That’s it. Get out. _Out_!” Two of the knights protested, unused to be ordered around by a farm boy, but the third was Sir Leon, who caught each of them with a stern look. They shuffled out the door and Leon leaned back into the room just long enough to say, “I’ll notify the king. Send word of his condition?” 

“Of course, Sir Leon,” Gaius assured him. And then hissed, “Merlin!” 

But Merlin was too far away for any reprimand. He worked quickly but methodically to remove each piece of armor and, sure enough, Arthur’s hair was plastered with sweat and his heavy gambeson was soaked nearly through. Within moments Arthur lay in his tunic and breeches and Merlin could see the injury.

A slashing blow must have caught him just beneath the protection of his mail shirt, across his mid-thigh. Without hesitation, Merlin took up Gaius’ shears and cut away Arthur’s breeches, exposing the leg from ankle to hip. It took frantic minutes more to clear away enough blood to expose the exact size and depth of the wound. The blade’s bite was deep, but could not have opened the artery, or they would already be too late. Merlin leaned against the table, hit with a sudden wave of nausea. 

“He’s still bleeding,” said Gaius tersely. “Press here.” The physician held a reddening cloth to Arthur’s thigh with steady pressure. 

“Wait,” Merlin interjected. With nimble fingers he whipped off his neckerchief and wrapped it tightly around Arthur’s leg above the gash. Then he smoothly replaced Gaius’ hands and bore down on the cloth. Tense minutes passed. The cloth was soaked. They had slowed the bleeding but not stopped it.

“And he’s already lost too much,” Gaius murmured, dismayed.

Merlin looked up to read his expression. What he saw there made his heart drop. He shook his head vigorously, “No, Gaius, you have to do something. There must be something else.” 

Gaius nodded brusquely, already turning to his shelves of bottles and jars, snatching up one after another, crushing herbs and salves into a poultice and muttering to himself.

Merlin allowed himself to look up from the injury, past the chest that rose and fell too shallowly, and take in Arthur’s face. His mussed hair was slowly regaining its golden color as it dried. His forehead was creased with pain, and yet he hadn’t cried out when Merlin had pressed on the wound. Still more worrying, the blush had fled his lips, and they were chalky and pale, parted to admit a weakening breath.

“Gaius, we’re losing him.” Merlin heard the panic in his own voice.

“Almost...just need to add--” Gaius answered.

“I’m sorry, there isn't time,” Merlin said, and tossed the bloodsoaked rag to the ground. He stretched his hands over the wound, hovering just above the gash where blood still weakly oozed. He closed his eyes. Healing spells were his weakness and he cursed himself for not trying harder, not learning more before this moment. Then he cleared his mind and reached inside. He called. His magic answered. Merlin felt the golden light pool beneath his skin and rise at his need. He conjured an image in his mind: Arthur’s face flushed with pleasure, eyes sparkling in the morning light, lips dark pink and kiss-bruised, chest rising and falling with strong breaths and oh, so very alive. _Heal him. Make him whole again._ And then Merlin heard the words of enchantment falling from his lips, without his conscious guidance. 

Fingers closed around Merlin’s wrist, clammy and weak. He startled at the touch and looked down. Arthur stared back at him, blue eyes wide, confused and almost fearful. Merlin wanted to run from those eyes, but he held his hands steady and shook his head.

“You have to let me, Arth--sire. You have to let me do this.” Then softer, “You have to trust me.”

Arthur held his gaze and then nodded. The grip on Merlin’s wrist weakened and slid off. Arthur slumped back into the blanket, his eyes shut.

 _Ic ðe ðurhhæle ðinu licsar mid ðam sundorcræft ðære ealdan æ. Drycræft ðurhhæle ðina wunda ond ðe geedstaðolie._ As Merlin chanted, his eyes glowed and the wounded flesh began to knit itself back together, layer by layer, until at last the gash was only a thick line of pink, new skin.

As the last healing words fell from his lips, Merlin rocked back on his heels and steadied himself against the table. Already Arthur’s breathing was better. Merlin could see color return to his face. He became aware of Gaius watching him.

“I had to,” Merlin said.

“I am only grateful that it worked,” Gaius reassured him. The physician returned his ingredients to their places and tidied up his workstation, seemingly satisfied with his patient’s condition.

Arthur inhaled sharply and his eyelids fluttered open. For a moment the prince caught a strange sight: Merlin, his hands pressed to his lips as if in prayer, arms red to the elbow with Arthur’s blood, his neck bare and startlingly white by contrast. Arthur’s eyes slid closed again, exhausted.

When he opened them, Merlin was gone. 

That night, Arthur tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable with the remaining ache in his thigh. When he closed his eyes, he still saw Merlin standing guard over him, hands bloody and pleading. 

**Author's Note:**

> For Merlioske, my Muse, my beta, and my friend, without whom this story would not exist.


End file.
